


Fantasia on a Theme of Sherlock

by gowerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Captain John Watson, Effects of War, First Meeting, Gen, Historical References, Hopeful Ending, Injury Recovery, Life behind the lines, Male Friendship, Nightmares, Possibly Pre-Slash, Protective Mycroft, References to Illness, TW - Brief descriptions of violence, TW-Suicidal Ideation, quiet heroism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/pseuds/gowerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wounded soldier, barely out of boyhood, drifts into his own memories as an antidote to fear and cold. Rescue arrives in an unlikely form.<br/>How two men meet, and drift, and meet again as World War One rages around them.</p><p>What if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson met behind the lines in France in 1917 and not on Baker Street?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EntropicCascade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntropicCascade/gifts), [Kizzia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Lamps Go Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078931) by [Kizzia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/pseuds/Kizzia). 



> This story began spooling out of my head one warm night in August 2014, after reading Kizzia's beautiful WW1 AU. Please go follow the links and read it, along with the rest of her works, because they are as brilliant and thoughtful as the writer herself.
> 
> Hidden amongst the better known narratives of World War One are examples of the quiet courage of those who joined up to serve despite being beyond compulsory fighting age, such as the composer Ralph Vaughan Williams. He joined the RAMC and served as an ambulance driver just behind the front lines, at the age of 41, when he could so easily have stayed in relative safety in England and taken a less perilous route through the war. 
> 
> The title of this fic is inspired by one of his most famous pieces ' Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis' https://youtu.be/ihx5LCF1yJY This music haunts me to the point of tears, and I am not alone - as it's also one of Mark Gatiss' choices for Desert Island Discs http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0167vjr

He had been here long enough for the explosion burn to slide into hypothermia. His movement was limited to a slight turn of the head and a twitch of his left hand.  
There had had been no movement at this end of the trench since dusk. The darkness was fractured by the whirring, screaming thuds of the shelling which had landed him into this oozing pile. When the blast had hit its mark, he screamed in a voice barely three years from breaking, until fetid air choked him into silence. Being alone would not protect him, because no-one would know to come for him now.  
Breathing became a bore which angered his ribs. He closed his eyes to the pain and retreated back to the memory of a county cathedral and the smug annoyance of an elder brother. Anywhere was preferable to here.  
\---  
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, confined by his clothes, the centuries-smoothed pew and the similarly immovable mass of his brother trapping him in place.  
He glowered at the floor and pushed his feet further into the cross-stitched hassock in front of him.  
Mycroft looked up from the programme. "The price of parental permission was appropriate attire and decorum. This is how the civilised world behaves."  
"Hmf.” More of a squeak than the growl he wanted it to be. The ideas in his head failed to match his half-grown gawkiness. Too thin for athleticism, too angular for beauty. He hoped that this would pass, because nothing could take away the awkwardness of being fifteen and fruitlessly hunting for a safe space in the savagery of boarding school.  
Mycroft tried to look past his defensive aggression from the safety of twenty two. "Not long now, Sherlock," he murmured as the orchestra filed into place. "I think you'll like the first piece. Do sit up - you're wrinkling your clothes." That earned him a glare and a refusal to comply.  
He tried again. "Come on now. Sit up and listen... You will be be amongst the first to hear this piece."  
"I am paying attention. I merely choose not to share my findings," he hissed, his face distorted with pain as the tuning began. "Heathens. Not one of them with a concept of perfect pitch. They should be jailed for torturing their instruments."  
"And that is why lesser mortals use tuning forks, brother dear."  
No further response came from the human gargoyle.  
A polite ripple of applause accompanied the conductor as he approached the dais. The baton trembled, a straw in his oversized paw, as he waited for the silence to grow.  
The first chord which shimmered from the strings pulled Sherlock from the tangles of his own mind. The incongruity of such beauty from the scrapings of such a bizarre collection of soberly dressed nonentities did not make sense. "Impossible," he breathed. Mycroft tapped his arm and leaned towards him. "Hardly. Just close your eyes and let the music take you."  
Against his better judgement, he did. He hated it when Mycroft was right. A temporary truce broke out, and lasted for the rest of the evening.  
\---  
Private Williams tramped beyond the edge of the wood, a grounded owl searching for prey. The cold bit into his bones, and he doubted the logic of being sent out to look for survivors in the collapsed trench. Exposure would have taken out those who managed to escape the onslaught, in his opinion, but it wasn’t for him to question an order.  
The opportunistic gathering of crows who were beginning to circle and perch in the trees suggested the presence of fresh casualties. Human flesh left to fester was merely carrion, after all. He had learned to watch their movements, trusting them to find remains he couldn’t see for himself. A torch would have helped, but that would only attract the eye of snipers he knew to be ranged along the opposing trenches. Birds made far better companions in his mind, for all of their simplistic savagery.  
An underlit cloud drifted away from the moon. A pair of midnight wings swooshed past his head and landed on what seemed a bone-pale branch. Her eyes focused downwards, glimmering like chips of polished coal. She wouldn’t sleep hungrily tonight, and neither would her brood.  
\---  
He is sitting on the lawn behind Grandmere's house when her fingers clasp his own. Her long, thin nails pierce his skin. He freezes, knowing that to recoil will cause her great pain, and she is his whole world. She will die soon, he knows, and every last one of her wishes will be fulfilled by him because that what is she deserves. She surely does not mean to hurt him. She loves him. She is the only one who tells him this.  
And so he remains, perfectly still as her soft voice hardens and warps into a metallic, grating caw. He holds still as she looms above him, her face darkening and shifting. Her smile melts into a silvered beak at least a handspan long. Her eyes shrink to pips of jet which regard his bloodied hand with naked hunger.  
"Non, Non," falls from his mouth. He attempts to wriggle away, blinking.  
\---  
His eyes opened to a wet, grainy darkness. His mouth filled with a mixture of blood and soil. He heard the swoosh and flap of wings and the relative stomp of larger feet approaching. _Non, Non, grandmere. Ne mangez pas moi, s’il vous plaît..._  
The distance between body and mind ranged out ahead, and he fell back into the silent expanse between them.  
\----  
Williams watched the raven bend towards her perch and begin to peck. Strange, he thought, until he looked again. Branches did not bleed.  
The ground tripped him several times as he hurtled towards her in the gloom. She swept up to the safety of the canopy in disgust. He hunted amongst the debris until his fingers pressed in against the tattered skin of a fine-boned arm. A pulse fluttered beneath them. Alive, for now.  
"Alright me lad. Cavalry's here. Might take some time to dig you out, though. Don't ye be goin’ anywheres."  
The hand beneath his responded, fumbling for greater contact. Williams gently pried the fingers away. "Calm down, lad. Not leaving without ye, but I'll need both hands for the job.”  
It felt like an age, but looking back, it was only half an hour of scrabbling and pulling him out of the ground into the icy air of predawn, his hands becoming furred with loam.  
“All done now, lad,” he murmured. “An’ you hardly old enough to be here.” The fingers tried to cage his wrist as though pinning the notes on a violin. “Steady, now. You’re safe. Accept me apologies for the transport, but I’m all alone roun’ ‘ere. Upsee, upsee, one, two ,three.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bit early for the milkman.” A younger voice, edged with weariness and caution.  
> A chuckle rumbled up. “Wrong kind of delivery. This one’s need of your services, Capt’n.”  
> “Quick or dead?”  
> “Looked like the latter, but then he twitched. Dug ‘im out meself.”  
> “Good man, Williams. Bring him in, and I’ll take him off your hands.”
> 
> A life-changing meeting takes place.

Cool air against one cheek, rough wool against the other. The world shifted on its axis, shaking at the constant motion of a tall man’s pace.  
So, not dead, or rather not dead yet. His head pounded with the movement and the nausea built. The half an acre he swallowed when the trench collapsed loosened and rose through his gullet. It would emerge with or without his consent.  
His eyes opened to the almost light. His fingers flexed against buttons of an army coat. All present, all working, if painfully.  
The world ceased its movement as a hand knocked on a door.  
“Bit early for the milkman.” A younger voice, edged with weariness and caution.  
A chuckle rumbled up. “Wrong kind of delivery. This one’s need of your services, Capt’n.”  
“Quick or dead?”  
“Looked like the latter, but then he twitched. Dug ‘im out meself.”  
“Good man, Williams. Bring him in, and I’ll take him off your hands.”  
\-----  
They laid him flat on a bench which reeked of carbolic and death. The sudden brightness of the lights in the dressing station bleached out his sight, and he groaned.  
Another set of hands were on him now, checking his pulse and breathing. The examination continued, accompanied by a murmured hum, insufficiently tuneful to be described as music, but comforting in its own way. Sherlock attempted to open his eyes, but the weight of drying mud blinkered him.  
“RIght now, settle. Where’s your tags? Not around your neck, for sure. And call this a uniform? More like something you pinched off a housewife’s line.” _A friendly voice, whose mockery was cloaked in warmth. A southerner whose family straddled two kingdoms. One foot in Hampshire, the other in Edinburgh. Hands smaller than the average, but no less skilled. A real doctor then, not just a half-trained Rob All My Comrades hack, then. Curious…_  
“Well, then, Corporal Mysterious, let’s get you cleaned up. The red tabs will want you classified as friend or foe, and the orderlies will have a fit if I plonk you as is in their off-whites.”  
More water, more hateful carbolic, the essence of school. Nausea bubbled in his gut. It crowded his throat and mouth, cutting off his air. Panic fuelled the tremble in his limbs.  
And He  was there, shouting for assistance. Half a dozen hands were on him now, tilting him so that the soil-streaked vomit spewed harmlessly away in a stream of foul acidity. “Get that cleaned up,“ he barked. “And pass me that sponge.”  
Something soft and warm and wet passed over his face, loosening the worst of the debris. A dry cloth followed, patting away the moisture. Confident hands rolled him onto his back. “Better out than in, lad. Lie still now, and we’ll get you close to decent again shortly.”

A flurry of footsteps, in and out of the room. The sloshing of water in a bucket and the slip-slap of a cloth mop waging war against the filthy floor.

Now there were two pairs of hands, one large, one small, stripping away the clothes and applying warm sponges to the uncovered flesh. He still couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the carbolic, but it had served its purpose. The mud and filth were gone. His shivering subsided and the scratchy warmth of a blanket pushed him back down towards oblivion.  
\------  
He woke on the far edge of the day in laundry-worn sheets and third-hand pyjamas. His head throbbed within a tight-wrapped bandage, as did his left arm which was cradled in an expertly--knotted sling. He lay in the last bed of a row of five. Each was occupied by a slumped form, wrapped in blankets and dressings, although he alone appeared to be aware of his surroundings. The lining of his throat felt scratched and acidic, but nowhere near as bad as before. A glint of something caught his eye; a half - filled tumbler of water trapping the sun on its surface, left in the hope that he would wake to drink it.  
Footsteps. A small, neat man emerging out of the near-gloom. The setting sun grasped at his hair and granted him a halo, deserved or no. He looked towards the bed, and his smile swiped a decade from his face.  
“Hello there….glad to see that you’ve decided to rejoin us, Corporal Holmes. You did have us wondering at one point. How do you feel?”  
“Sore.” A growling whisper, all splinters and edges.  
“That is to be expected when you swallow half a trench of mud, then kindly donate it to my treatment room.” He approached the bed, and handed him the tumbler. “Drink.” He was obeyed without question.  
The water softened the edges of Holmes’ throat. He surveyed the doctor with interest. “Hmm...Doctor first, soldier second. Southern born, but with Scots ancestry. London trained. Was it Barts where they got their hooks in you?”  
There was a silence, then an amused huff. “Remarkable. And for your next parlour trick, you’ll explain why I’ll ignore your downright cheek?”  
“Because I’m right, or mostly so, Doctor.”  
“That’s Captain Watson to you, Corporal.”  
“I have the impression that Doctor Watson suits you better.”  
“Perhaps, but mind your manners around here. Wouldn’t do to upset the bigwigs with that line of affrontery, seeing as you could be here for a few more days. We’d better inform your regiment. They’re bound to be missing a spark like you. Who’s your CO?”  
Holmes rolled his eyes. “Lestrade, Royal Engineers. Exact location unknown, but last heard of near Vimy. The red tabs should know where to find him.” His eyes focused on Watson’s clipboard. ”What’s the damage to the transport, then?”  
“Exposure, concussion, scalp wound, suspected multiple fractures and lacerations. All repairable, given time, but not here, so don’t get comfortable.”  
A pair of bruised eyebrows twitched. “Hardly likely in this context, but I appreciate your concern.”  
“Very well, then. Supper, or something like it, will be along shortly. Good evening.”  
“Good evening, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aiming to post at a chapter at lest every few days, life and work allowing. Thank you for everyone reading and following this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The patient makes some progress, much to the relief of a minor official of His Majesty's Government...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the rating of this fic, having remembered how Sherlock speaks when confronted by his brother!

Watson sat at his desk, forcing himself to complete the daily pile of sodding bumf. He doubted that much of it would be read once he had finished it, but he owed it to his patients to ensure their records were conscientiously completed, whether they survived or not. He signed the last of the papers and shut the folder, blinking to release the grit trapped against his eyes.

A knock at the door made him jump. Curious. He was virtually off duty unless there had been a sudden influx of casualties. Williams would be there to assist, if that was the case, instead of lying on his bunk, composing symphonies in his head. when  came again, somewhat more insistent this time, he sighed. “Enter.”

  
The door opened while he began on the next pile of papers. “I do apologise for interrupting, Captain Watson.” A plummy voice, its tone edged with steel. John’s head shot up, expecting to see a shoulderful of braid and port-flushed cheeks.  
Not quite. An army great coat, yes, but with epaulettes held in place with tiny crowns, over a dark grey tweed suit, country-cut but exquisitely so. A sharp, pale intelligent face above it, whose persona was designed to intimidate in lieu of formal uniform, perhaps.

  
Watson frowned as he assessed the intruder. “And you are?”

  
“Mycroft Sigerson. Governmental liaison.” He proffered his papers over for inspection. Watson examined them carefully, then returned them. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence, Mr. Sigerson?”

  
“The actions of one of your orderlies, a Private Williams, who was responsible for the location and recovery of one of our operatives earlier today.” Sigerson took a breath before continuing, as though ordering his thoughts. “I understand that he is currently on one of your wards, and I am here to ensure arrangements for his return as soon as medically advisable.”

  
“For what reason? Is he under arrest, or likely to be, as a result of his actions prior to admission here?”

  
Sigerson’s eyebrows twitched. “Not in the slightest,” he replied decisively. ”It is merely that Holmes was involved in the retrieval and transmission of certain communications, the nature of which I am not at liberty to discuss. It is more than possible that he may have unwittingly relayed some of this whilst undergoing treatment.”

  
“I spoke to Corporal Holmes approximately two hours ago for a short time. He was lucid and clearly in control of his faculties. He confirmed nothing other than his name, regiment and commanding officer, a Major Lestrade.“ Watson thrust his papers into a drawer and locked them.

  
“And he said nothing else?”

  
“Only to share some deductions about my ancestry and medical training, which were entertaining, if only for their level of accuracy.” He stood and fixed Sigerson with a confident look. “Are all of your people thus trained?”

  
“Unfortunately not. Sher- Holmes has merely made significant use of his natural capabilities, which have been of assistance in some fields and not in others. May I inquire about his exact condition?”

  
“Concussion, fractures and lacerations compounded by overnighting in a collapsed trench in inadequate kit. Nothing seeming to be irreparably damaged, given appropriate treatment and time.”

Sigerson nodded. “Recited from memory. Are all of your patients so memorable?” “Some more than others, Mr Sigerson. I will permit you to see Corporal Holmes, but for no more than five minutes, and on the strict understanding that you will leave immediately if I deem your presence to be the cause of distress to Holmes or any other of my patients. Is that understood?”

Sigerson’s smile glinted like a polished scalpel. “Understood.”

Watson stood. “Very well, then. If you would follow me?”  
\----  
Mycroft nodded his thanks to Dr Watson, who left him at the bedside. He pulled up a chair and took gentle hold of Sherlock’s unbound hand. The fingers recoiled. “Fuck off Mycroft,” emerged in a crackly growl from the pillows.

  
Mycroft allowed himself a brief grin. “It is reassuring that your intellect, or what there is of it, has emerged unscathed.” He inspected his nails. “Whilst I have been assured that you are unlikely to suffer lasting consequences for this escapade, you will find that there are far more pressing matters which require your attention in England.”

  
“That’s not for you to decide. You are not my commanding officer.”

  
“Perhaps not, but Lestrade will see sense. He’d rather you were alive and deciphering comms rather than risking everything on increasingly foolish hunches.”

  
“I will believe it when I hear that directly from him.”

  
“That you will, but all in good time. Your injuries will take their time to heal.”

“Hmmf. Transport.”

  
Mycroft stood and and replaced the chair. “I will of course do the decent thing and inform Mother. She does worry so about you.”

  
“If you must. Any news of Victor?”

  
Mycroft seemed to waver. “Nothing definitive, as of yet. I will intensify my enquiries.“

  
“See that you do. Now piss off. The stench of your idleness is making me nauseous.”  
\---  
“Captain Watson.”

“Mr Sigerson.” Two pairs of determined eyes met. Mycroft dipped his head first for once. A brief smile graciously slid across his face.

  
“Once again, I would like to thank you for your efforts on behalf of Corporal Holmes. I will arrange for his transfer as soon as I receive the relevant clearances.”

  
Watson nodded. “I would prefer that he remains here for at least one further day, to ensure that his injuries remain clear of infection. This will require significant and careful monitoring if he is to make a viable recovery.”

  
“That can be arranged, Captain. Earlier you mentioned that Sher- Holmes was found by one of your orderlies. I would be most grateful if he could be spared for a few moments.”

  
A wry smile crossed Watson’s face. “I can understand how you would like to thank the man who found your younger brother.” He watched Mycroft’s eyes widen briefly with alarm before his composure returned. “I will, of course, say nothing of this elsewhere, but only close family would tolerate such rudeness without threatening military discipline.“

  
Mycroft acknowledged defeat. “Your powers of observation are a credit to your profession,” he replied evenly. “...as is your discretion. It is in everyone’s interests that such a connection remains undiscovered.”

  
Watson nodded. “Understood. Now for Private WIlliams. If you could follow me once more…”  
\---  
“Sir?” Williams’ salute was frayed with tiredness.

  
Watson’s was only marginally sharper. He nodded up at him. “At ease, Williams. This is Mr. Sigerson, who is a Governmental liaison officer. He would like to speak to you about Corporal Holmes.” Williams acknowledged him, but his eyes followed Dr. Watson as he headed back to his office.

  
Mycroft smiled briefly. “I will not keep you long, Private Williams. Would you walk with me?”

  
Williams shrugged. “ No issue with me, sir.”

  
They took to the path which lead around the perimeter of the dressing station. “I understand that I have you to thank for the rescue of Corporal Holmes.”

  
“Jus’ doing my job, sir. No different from any other day, though the lad seemed too young to be in this. I understand that he is doing as well as can be expected.“

  
“Not entirely. Did he say anything when you first encountered him?”

  
Williams threw him a sideways look. “Nothing more than moans and groans. Bit hard to spill secrets when you’ve got a gullet full of muck.” _Not that you would know anything about that._

  
Mycroft said nothing, but seemed to absorb Williams’ thoughts. They walked on a few yards before he began again. “I took my brother to your Gloucester concert, years ago, when he was still an awkward schoolboy. It transported him. I wish that we could have met under better circumstances.”

  
“You’re not the first to say such things, sir. Where is he now?”

  
Mycroft turned his eyes away. “Wounded but recovering, not far from here. A brave man who should never have enlisted dragged him from the mud.”

  
Williams turned his eyes to the path. “I’m not afraid of my surroundings, sir. I’d rather be here, to save the ones I can, instead of mouldering away composing patriotic ditties while the young are out here dying. What’s the point of composing when the musical talent of the nations get planted in this mud, an era before their time?”

  
“Duty comes in many forms. All play a part, according to their station, which is why a man of your capability should not put himself at mortal risk. It is a waste of national resources.”

  
“And this isn’t?” Williams’ fury grew. “I've lost half my choir and all my County Scholars, lads who had so much promise. All gone, or injured beyond hope. No-one saved them, did they? So this is why I‘m here, doing what I can for those I can reach.”

  
“There are other ways in which you could serve.”

“Per’aps, but my service is my choice. Don’t ye be setting plans to send me home.”

  
Mycroft took in a heavy breath. The passion of Williams’ response was unexpected, if perhaps understandable in hindsight. He paused to allow the redirection of his thoughts.

  
“I would not presume such a liberty, sir, as I intimated, there are other places beyond England that individuals of your calibre would be better placed to serve their country.”

  
Williams huffed. “I go where I’m told to. Tha’s not my decision.”

  
“Clearly, not, but there are those who would consider such choices.”

  
“I didn’t come here for special treatment.”

“That has been most evident throughout. Nevertheless, a war is as much won on logistics as it is on firepower and happenstance.” Mycroft turned to Williams. “I hope that we have the opportunity to meet again under calmer skies.”

  
Williams shook his hand. “Safe journey, Mr Sigerson. I hope that the lad recovers well.”

  
Mycroft smiled. “ As do I.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson's life at the dressing station continues, enlivened by postal interventions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading this. It means a lot.

Corporal Holmes was declared fit for travel the following day, while Watson slept off his night shift. His hours were filled with other patients; some who lived, many who didn’t. From time to time, he wondered how Holmes was faring, all lightning wit and casual bravado.

The work consumed him, as the hours of daylight contracted into a handful between the encroaching nights. Damp autumn slid into mist-strewn, sleet-sodden winter. The flow of casualties continued, as did the paper trail which followed them. 

Christmas loomed on the horizon like an unreality. Paper chains appeared overnight, looped between the rafters of the ward roof, as did a wreath of twisted evergreens on the mess door. The volume of post increased three-fold.  

Dr. Watson received the two cards he had been expecting; from his sister in Bristol and from Michael Stamford, his fellow houseman at Bart’s. There was no-one else to miss him, or fret about his circumstances.  He was therefore surprised when Williams knocked at his door, his arms stretched around a box wrapped in thick brown paper and sealed with wax.

“What’s this then?” he asked.

“For you, Sir. Just arrived.”

Watson blinked. “Are you sure it’s for me?” Williams grinned.

“Absolutely, sir,” he replied. “Look. Captain J. H. Watson, RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, BEF, France”. 

Watson read the label for himself. True enough, someone, somewhere had determined that he would have something to mark the season. “Put it on  the desk, Williams. And thank you for going out of your way. There really was no need.”

“It’s not out of my way, sir. I came to say goodbye. I’m being sent home on a five day leave before being shipped elsewhere. Somewhere dry and dusty is all I’ve been been told. No reason given, but the Army does what the Army likes, sir.” Williams grinned ruefully. “I won’t miss the mud or the cold, but...” his words wandered away.

Watson smiled. “I’ll be sorry to see you go. Safe journey.”

“I’ll do my best. Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye.” 

Watson watched him leave, then began to disassemble the parcel with surgical accuracy. This took longer he expected as it had been wrapped with the determination it would arrive intact, despite the best that the winter could throw at it, under a double layer of strong wrapping paper, string and sealing wax.

And then there was a box to be opened. He prised the flaps apart  and found a layer of packages in the same brown paper, along with a slim white envelope addressed to Captain J H Watson in the same authoritative hand who had addressed the parcel.

 

℅ Sigerson Lodge

Highgate Hill

London

15th December 1917

_ Dear Captain Watson, _

_ I hope that you are well and are suitably provisioned for the winter. I understand that you are amongst those who were instrumental in the treatment of my son earlier in the year. Sherlock continues to recover to the satisfaction of his doctor and is now recuperating at home. _

_ Please accept the enclosed as the eternal thanks of a mother grateful for the safe return of her son when so many will never have that precious opportunity. _

_ May the Lord continue to keep you safe. _

_ Yours with the utmost of sincerity _

_ Lady Holmes _

Watson folded the letter and placed it carefully in his desk drawer before beginning to explore the collection of parcels. Strictly speaking there was another week before Christmas, but he knew enough to appreciate a break in the flow of casualties when it arrived. He set to work.

Half an hour later, all was revealed, Two pairs of khaki socks, immaculately knitted, along with a muffler in soft grey wool, clearly created by the same hand. A tin of biscuits, and another of fruitcake, and a canister of Earl Grey from Fortnum & Mason.

Watson braced himself against his desk, stilled by the kindness of a stranger. He felt oddly unworthy, having done nothing more than his role demanded. But then rationality took over. He replaced the lids of the tins and took them to the messwhere others could share their appreciation of them.

He returned to his desk at the end of his shift, accompanied by a mug of the Earl Grey. Such a gift deserved a gracious response.

 

_ BEF _

_ France _

_ December 17th 1917 _

_ Dear Lady Holmes _

_ I write with thanks for the parcel which arrived today. It came as a delightful surprise for myself and my colleagues.  I am very glad to hear of your son’s progress.  I hope that this will continue. _

_ May I take this opportunity to wish you and your family a very Happy Christmas and best wishes for the New Year. _

_ Yours sincerely  
_

 

_ Capt J H Watson _

_ RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers _

 

\-----

Months passed. Private Williams’ replacement arrived, a thin, nervous man of about fifty who skulked about like a rat in khaki. He followed orders with the minimum level of efficiency and lacking much of the compassion of his predecessor. He was tolerated but never liked. Watson got the distinct impression that the feeling was mutual.

In the depths of the winter, a  single scribbled postcard arrived.

_ 9th February 1918 _

_ Dear Captain Watson _

_ Kindest greetings from an ancient coast. Less mud, more dust, but the sunsets are something to behold.The men are friendly, but your counterparts here less so. I am not the only musician here. I live in hope of creating a choir if the the RTs unbend sufficiently. _

_ Kind regards  RVW _

  
Watson smiled, then tucked the postcard amongst his personal effects. He pictured Williams stomping over a Grecian beach, eyes focused downwards as he catalogued songs in his mind, his thoughts swooping up into the clouds . 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes England is more dangerous than the trenches. Watson's medical instincts cost him dearly...

Little changed, other than the lengthening of days. Watson’s turn for leave rolled around. He intended to take up the Stamfords on their offer of hospitality for the time he was in England, given that he only had five days once travel was taken into account. Elsie had been a dream in her parents’ eyes when Watson had sailed for France; now she was no doubt toddling about the place. They had sent a picture just after she was born but nothing since, since resources were scarce.  
\---  
He sent word of his impending arrival, and was delighted when he heard Mike Stamford boom “John!” as he alighted at London Bridge. He spotted him just beyond the barrier, an excited toddler clasped tightly to his chest. Elsie caught the note of joy in her father’s voice and joined in with a happy squeal.  
“Good to see you, John. Been far too long.”  
Watson grinned at the pair of them. “Damn right, but I’m here now.” He pulled a face at Elsie, who reached out to pat his nose. “How old is she now then?”  
Stamford swelled with parental pride. “Ten months last week. Already hurtling about the place with no concern for her surroundings...”  
“Just like her papa then, isn’t she? I can remember your exploits on and off the rugby pitch…”  
\---  
Watson spent a happy week in at the Stamfords’ modest villa in Norwood. Elsie ensured that it was neither quiet nor peaceful for long but the normality of playing with her on the hearth and the domestic buzz went a long way to rebuild a resilience he hadn’t realised had ebbed.  
It was a genuine wrench when Saturday evening knocked at the door. John shouldered his pack, hugged the little family goodbye and walked down the hill to the station.  
There was a dusting of people on the platform; factory workers, soldiers returning from leave, a few weary families heading towards home. Watson found an empty second class carriage and and sat back as the train pulled away. His supper of rabbit stew lay like a pleasant weight in his belly. He drifted into a drowse as the train puffed back towards London.

A deep rumbling and the boom of an explosion pulled him from sleep. Bloody zeppelins. He threw himself to the floor of the compartment as the windows imploded into a shower of glass.  
He stood and shook himself like a sodden cat, sending fragments skittering and bounding around the compartment. The train lurched onwards. He forced the door open and made his way down the train, looking in each compartment as he passed.  
A small girl of perhaps five darted and ran smack into his legs. The impact bounced her back against the floor. She stared up, eyes welling with frightened tears. He crouched until they were almost eye to eye.  
“Shh now. Are you alright?” He looked her over, and spotted a stain blooming on the edge of her petticoat.  
She nodded between attempts to catch her breath. ”Mama's asleep with her eyes open and I can’t wake her up.”  
“If you take me to her,” he replied, “I might be able to help.”  
She eyed his uniform suspiciously. “You’re a soldier, not a doctor.”  
He pointed to a badge halfway down his arm. “That shows that I’m a bit of both. Now if you will take me to your mama, I’ll see how I can help...”  
She scrambled to her feet as the train lurched forwards. A small hand grabbed his and pulled into the compartment  
A woman lay slumped at a drunken angle against the fractured window. Watson crouched next to her and checked for a pulse in her wrist. When he found none, he reached across and closed the glassy eyes, far too aware of her daughter hovering behind him.  
He turned back towards the little girl. “Your mama is very tired,” he said, hating the lie even as it left his mouth. “I’m just going to make her a little more comfortable.” He lifted the woman's feet until she was lying flat on the seats. From this angle, her injuries were almost imperceptible because it concealed the jagged glass which had pierced her nec . Her daughter watched, wide-eyed, until Watson pulled a pack of cards out his pocket. “Now, do you know how to play snap?” he asked.  
She rewarded him with a pointed look under raised eyebrows. “Of course I do. I’m not a baby!”  
“Very good then.“ He shuffled the cards before splitting the pack between his hands. “Left or right?”  
“That one.” She tapped his right hand.  
“Very well, then. You start...”  
But then there was a boom and a flash. The compartment splintered. Watson lurched forward, pulling the little girl under him to protect her from the debris. He felt her wriggle then go still as his shoulder exploded with pain and his head slammed against the wooden floor.  
His last memory was the huffing of her breath against his neck and the scrabble of frightened fingers before everything faded to a seeping dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on a more regular posting schedule, now that my unexpected social whirl has calmed down again. Thank you to everyone reading along.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Watson's plight has not gone unnoticed.

“More Zeppelin damage, I see.”  Sherlock scowled. The only benefit was that the toad was screened from  his view by the newspaper.

Mycroft continued regardless. “It appears that they’re targeting train lines now.”

“And that concerns you because…?”

Mycroft’s lips tightened into a single pale line. “A population drawn into panic by enemy action will benefit no-one on this side of the conflict. Perhaps we should be thankful that if Mother hears of this, she’ll think twice about traipsing up to town and pestering us here. Besides, she has her hands full. She has offered Vernet House up for official use as an officer’s hospital. The first patients moved in two weeks ago. She assured me in her most recent letter that our rooms have been preserved.”

“How public spirited of her.”

Mycroft stood and flicked an invisible crumb from his waistcoat. “I understand that you would not appreciate being desk bound, but the east wind is blowing, and I predict that a more active role will be forthcoming.”

“Your crystal ball needs cleaning, brother dear.”

“Not mine, Sherlock, the Home Secretary’s. Do consider your dress; night attire after eight am is only acceptable for the infirm and the insensible, and you are no longer either of those.”  
  
_Thankfully._

He swept out before Sherlock could insult him further.

\----

“Yes, Miss Metcalfe?”

“Captain Watson has officially been recorded as AWOL.”

Mycroft frowned. “Are you sure?”

 Miss Metcalfe stood her ground and held out the report so that he could read it for himself. “Ah. Somewhat unusual.”

 “I agree, Sir.” She waited on the other side of the desk. “He was expected to be on the troop train at London Bridge at 2200 on Saturday, but never appeared. An earlier incoming train was delayed due to the zeppelin attack, but only by half an hour while the track was inspected and the passengers evacuated.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft sat back in his chair. “I take it that he has not turned up in a police cell?”

Miss Metcalfe shook her head. “Is it possible he could have been caught up in the attack?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Possibly.  Check the hospitals and the mortuaries.”

“Sir.” She left his office without a sound.

\---

“Do stop hogging the table. What  on earth are you looking for now?"

Sherlock blinked invisible darts across the room before returning to the serious business of scrutinising the personal columns. "Something."

 Mycroft cocked a brow at him. "I didn't think Victor was classed as a thing."

"He wasn't- isn't." Sherlock's cheeks pinked slightly. "He said that we would keep in touch via codes in the personal columns, but it's been six months since the last contact."

"Six and a half actually." The snipe faded out of Mycroft's voice. "At the risk of stating the bloody obvious, there is a war on, 'Lock. He may not have been able to get a message through."

"All the more reason to check the latest casualty lists then."  There was a sharpness growing behind Sherlock's eye. "I can't trust his loathsome father to pass on his news."

"I am hardly surprised about that when you refer to him in such a fashion. It would hardly mark you out in a positive light." Mycroft glanced instinctively at the clock. He really did not have time for this today. He templed his fingers. "I thought you would have realised by now that to care for someone to the extent that you did -do- for Victor is to lay yourself open to  a whole range of emotional and social disasters, especially in the current climate. You have to accept that it is almost wholly out of your hands now. If he is meant to find you and wants to find you, he will."

"Sod your mindless homilies." More like the snarl of a wounded animal than a rational being. “Piss off back to your minor fiefdom and its half-acre desk. I'm sure the Minister awaits your latest outpouring of patriotic drivel with whisky-tainted glee."

Mycroft pushed his chair firmly under the table. "I view it as an honour to serve my country in this way when I lack the health to play a more physical role," he replied. "And now it is your turn to join the Department. Your interview is at ten thirty sharp tomorrow. I will meet you at the Partington Arch."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you will be dragged there in whatever state of dishevelment you are found in and most likely find yourself deposited in the City of London asylum for signs of identifiable lunacy." An odd gleam appeared in Sherlock's eye. Mycroft realised his mistake. "No, 'Lock. Your demeanour must remain sane, staid and sensible, no matter what burns within. Anything else would destroy Mother."

Sherlock threw him a glare. "How you contradict your own worthless philosophy."

Mycroft sniffed. "She is the exception which proves the rule. Now put your clothes on. I have pulled a good many strings to assist you. Do not let the family down.”Sherlock shrugged. "I will consider it," wandered aimlessly out of his mouth while his eyes continued to devour the newsprint.

\---

“Dr Stamford?” The quietly assertive voice tore his mind away from the latest stack of examination scripts. The underlying tension in her voice chilled him. Put down his pen and looked up, a weak smile on his face. “I've been sent to find you on the request of Dr Haynes in Admissions. He wishes to speak to you urgently.”Stamford blinked away his fear. His recent journeys from Norwood has been frequently disrupted by the Zeppelin attacks. All had been well when he had left that morning. But...

“My wife, Helen? Or Elsie...”

“No, Doctor. An army officer. Your details were found amongst his papers.” The nurse fidgeted in the doorway, as though struggling to pass on the rest of the message.

“ A Captain Watson?”

 She nodded.

“I'll come.”

He was a statue at the end of Watson’s bed, attempting to process the information which Dr Haynes had thrust at him. His injuries were grievous, but offered chance for recovery in the appropriate environment.

Watson wouldn’t be here for long, whatever happened. The beds were needed for civilian casualties. He pulled out his notebook and wrote a few lines, before locating the nurse who had come to find him earlier. “Would it be possible for someone to let me know of his progress?”

“Certainly.” Her smile was warm and professionally reassuring. “I’m glad he has someone to look out for him. I will pass on as much as I’m able.”

“It is much appreciated, Nurse --?”

“Hooper, Doctor Stamford. Now if you will excuse me, I must  return to the sluice.”

 ---

"I take it you have news?"

 Miss Metcalfe rewarded Mycroft with a raised eyebrow. "I would have hardly bothered you for less, Sir. I understand the Wednesday afternoon  rules."

"And  that is why I selected you for my staff. What can you tell me?"

“Captain Watson was injured in the zeppelin raid raid on last week. Strictly speaking, he should have been transferred immediately to a military establishment, but the severity of his wounds combined with the number of civilian casualties meant that it was more expedient for him to be treated at St Bartholomew's until he was fit for transport."

"And what of of his condition?"

She consulted her papers. "It appear that he remains in a grievous but stable condition following surgery to remove debris from from his shoulders, back and lungs, in addition to minor fractures in his right leg. I have been lead to believe that he will be transferred to a military hospital as soon as they are reasonably confident that that he is fit to be moved."

 "His his family been informed? I presume that he has one."

"A sister whose is a permanent resident of an asylum near Bristol. None other than her, Sir."

“I see. Please keep me informed of his progress. We have contacts in Hampshire. Do what you can to assist in his relocation.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Mycroft rested his chin on his steepled hands and contemplated what would need to be written before he left his desk that night.

\---

_March 25th 1918_

_Dear Mr Sigerson_

_Whilst your letter regarding Captain Watson’s injuries brought me considerable concern, I remain very thankful for your role in delivering it to me with such speed.I would be most grateful if you could keep me appraised of his progress, for good or ill._

 

_Sincerely yours_

_Private R V Williams_

_PS I am much relieved to hear of Holmes’ recovery. I look forward to hearing him play if such an opportunity arises._

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Watson wakes to find himself at the mercy of others who have his best interests at heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chasingbluefish wins the award for spotting this plot development...

There was the memory of movement, followed by the periodic rush of cold air against his face. A transfer of some kind.

Watson felt every shiver and jolt, but lacked the strength to protest beyond the crumpling of his face. Pain swept over him in waves, held back by the welcome scratch of  the morphine needle which marked  the passing of time.

He came back to himself as the overhead lamps took away the first gloom of dusk. Vibrant, unhesitant birdsong and the scent of sodden trees slid through the  open window. The discreet sympathy of medical staff in other rooms filtered through like scraps of a half-heard conversation. _Where the hell was this?_ It didn't feel like London, or even the outskirts; the fresh,still air told him that. Flinty shards of sleep splintered against his lids as he tried to open them, but neither hand obeyed his order to wipe them away. His right felt flabby and weak as it fumbled against the blankets. His left writhed against the confines of a high sling.

Footsteps approached, echoing on floorboards and then mutedly as they crossed a rug.There was the tink of china resting on wood and the discreet squelch of cloth squeezed between capable hands.

“Captain Watson, I am so glad you have decided to rejoin us. May I make you more comfortable?” A softly confident voice, cultured and mature. Watson nodded. The flannel swept gently  across his face  before coming to rest over his eyes. The moisture loosened the crusted sleep, freeing his eyes for the first time in days.

“Thh,” stumbled out of his mouth.

“Here.” A half-filled glass swam into his vision. “Just a few sips, mind. Doctor will be into see you shortly, so don’t you go falling asleep again.” He obeyed, suddenly feeling all of six again, recovering from the measles which Harry had given him as a birthday present. The memory brought forth an unbidden smile. “Yes ma’am.” He barely recognised his own voice.

But then he blinked, and began to take in some of the details of the room around him. Faded fern wallpaper fenced in by soft cream dado and picture rails. Long curtains in an equally aged green lolling against the corners of the window seat. A desk stood to attentiona against the wall opposite, its surface filled with the regimented rows of supplies awaiting inspection.

His eyes alighted on the woman. Tall, with the memory of slenderness about her. Silvering hair corralled into a pleat by long pins. An apron tied determinedly over a black dress was her sole concession to the uniform. She caught him staring at and smiled. “Not quite your average uniform, but needs must,“ she explained, picking up the basin. “I’ll be back once you’ve passed the inspection.”

A silhouette appeared in the doorway, who stepped aside to let her pass, acknowledging her with  a sharp nod. He advanced stiffly to the foot of Watson’s bed. “Evening, Captain.” A soft Highlands accent with an edge of Edinburgh. “My name is Sholto.” Watson edged himself straighter in the bed in lieu of a salute. “At ease. Do you have any recollections as to why you’re cluttering up one of my beds instead of running your dressing station?”

Watson sucked in a breath before responding. “Zeppelin attack, Sir. I went to the aid of a young mother and her daughter, after the first explosion. The woman was already dead, but the child…”

Sholto nodded. “She survived, thanks to your chivalric foolhardiness. Want to know the damage?”

Watson was caught between dread and curiosity. “If you would, Sir.”

“The good news is that you emerged relatively intact, unlike some of us in similar encounters. The bad news is your  left shoulder took most of the force of the blast. The fact you’ve still got something dangling from it is entirely down to the surgical team at Barts.They scoured it out and have left you with whatever they could, but it will be a long road back. Physically, you’ve had a very close shave. No major arterial issues, but there are several cracked ribs with minor lung damage as a result. You also sustained a minor tib fracture, no doubt due to the force of the blast, but that's nothing worse than you might have had on the rugby pitch.” Sholto looked down at his notes. “Better get used to these four walls, Watson. We’ve managed to combat the worst of a fever outbreak here, and whilst that itself would be unlikely to send you westwards, you’ve got enough on your plate as it is. Just as well the lady of the house has taken a shine to you, as you’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other until things calm down.”

“Where exactly are we, Sir?”

“Vernet House, Watson. Outskirts of Brockenhurst. Very picturesque, or so I’ve been led to believe. Plenty of deer, so I doubt we’ll starve.” Sholto pulled out a stethoscope. “Now I’d like a closer look at you, Captain.”

Sholto unbuttoned Watson’s pyjama jacket to ease the examination. His hands spanned the width of his chest, pressing gently on each rib to assess their repair, before checking the workings of his his heart and lungs. “Good, good,” he said, half to Watson, half to himself. “Now, onto your right side. Count of three.”

Watson shifted over as best he could, grateful for the velvet-iron grip of the Major’s hand. The sudden pain left him rigid and gasping. ”Easy now,”  Sholto murmured as he examined the dressings. “Nothing to be worried about.” Sholto held him until his  breathing settled, then rebuttoned the pyjama jacket. “Everything’s in order. I’m going to be tailing off your morphine gradually over the coming days, so that we get you back into the habit of natural sleep. No point adding addiction to your woes.”

“Understood.”

Sholto nodded. “I’ll be in tomorrow to oversee the changing of your dressings. Keep the acrobatics to a minimum in the meantime, Watson.”

“I’ll do my best, Sir. Goodnight.”

\---

“You wished to see me, Major?”

Sholto looked up from his notes. “Yes, Lady Holmes. Regarding our latest arrival.”

“ Of course. It’s a pleasant evening, and with all due respect, you look as though some fresh air would help. Would you care to join me in the garden?”

“Most certainly.”

“Whilst I am most grateful for you offer to close-nurse Captain Watson, I must be assured of your ability to cope with whatever occurs.”

“I appreciate your concern, Major, but I am not a stranger to the sickroom.” She led him across the lawn and towards the knot garden. ”I nursed both parents, my husband and my middle son, even unto the end. Death has never frightened me, even when it has claimed those closest to my heart.”

Sholto had the decency to look briefly ashamed. “My apologies, ma’am.” He kept his eyes on the path ahead. “I do believe that Captain Watson will recover by dint of our combined efforts, but it will be a long and difficult process.”

“And yet you don’t see me fleeing. He was instrumental in saving my son’s life in France.”

“He should be grateful that he has such a formidable ally, in the absence of significant family. There is a sister, but, going by the details on his records, she appears to be an asylum inhabitant.”

“There’s a sad tale behind that, I’m sure,” she replied. “I count myself fortunate that I have the family that I do. The influenza which claimed my middle son left its mark on my eldest’s heart. He has a gift for languages, which I believe the War Office is putting to good use. His mind makes up for the shortfalls of his body."

“Sherlock, my youngest, has a similar intelligence, but his is unfortunately paired by a restless energy and an unpredictable nature. He enlisted in the Signallers as soon as they would take him and appears to have been involved in various sorties before being injured. He might not see action again, but I am sure that his skills will not be wasted.“

They had reached the garden boundary, beyond which fields and undulating hills stretched out to meet the horizon. Sholto examined the gravel at his feet.

“I have been somewhat remiss in showing my gratitude for the loan of your house for the duration. We will look after it with your help and governance.”

She nodded her acknowledgement. “Houses have souls which shrivel without a steady population,” she replied. “My fledglings prefer London skies these days. Good food, clean air and calm can go a long way to helping the injured heal. I am too old and too haphazardly educated to be of use in another fashion.”

Sholto frowned. “You do yourself an injustice, ma’am. “

“Perhaps.  But it is time to go in.”

The faint banging of a gong rang out across the air.”I believe that is  our call for supper before the  evening rounds. Captain Watson will no doubt appreciate your company and assistance. I…” He struggled for the words, and fell back on formality as his best means of courteous escape. “Thank you for your company. Your gardens are quite beautiful. I would like to have the opportunity to visit them again.”

She smiled. “They are open to whomever finds solace in them. Good evening, Major Sholto.”

“Good evening, Lady Holmes.” 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mycroft returns to a shadow-filled house, the scene he finds pulls at even his deep-buried heart.

Mycroft let himself in and crept up the stairs to the suite of rooms he shared with Sherlock. The library lay in velvet-black shadows. A less perceptive soul would have assumed that they were alone, but he knew differently. He took in the upturned table and the trail of twisted paper which led from the hearth rug to the sofa and finally to the window. Sherlock was a crumpled mass of shirtsleeves and bare feet, arms wrapped tight around his knees as if they had threatened to abandon him. His breathing was shallow and so infrequent that at first it seemed absent. Mycroft crouched beside him and laid a featherweight hand on his shoulder. “Up you get, ‘Lock. You’ll freeze if you stay here.”

“Fine.” A tiny voice, muffled in cloth and folded limbs. “All I’m good for.”

“I am not accepting that from you.” Mycroft slid his arms under Sherlock and scooped him up. The lightness of his bones was shocking. “Onto the chaise, at the very least.”

Sherlock squirmed and keened loudly against such indignity. Mycroft’s hands slipped against the fine cotton of his shirt, and he lost his balance.

They tumbled against the chaise. Sherlock’s head connected with the carved edge. The change was instantaneous. Mycroft felt a scrabbling foot connect repeatedly with his hip. A trickle of liquid puddled between them. Sherlock’s head lolled back on a neck suddenly too floppy to hold it up.

The stillness, when it came, filled Mycroft with dread. He lay Sherlock back against the cushions and pressed trembling fingers to his neck, all the time watching for the rise and fall of  independent breath. Both came, faint but steadying. He knelt  on the edge of the hearth, torn between summoning help and maintaining his vigil. Each seemed as guilty an act as the other.

A small silhouette appeared in the doorway, clutching a shawl and a lamp.

“Everything alright, Mycroft?”

Mycroft was thankful that the darkness hid his burning, shining eyes. He swallowed sharply and cleared his throat. “Not precisely. My brother appears to have had a fit.  Please could you summon Dr Pemberley at once.”

“Oh, the poor lamb...“ He heard her feet on the stairs and the vague echo of her voice as she picked up the telephone. _Thank God for Mrs Hudson_.

 ---

The library fire was glowing softly, as were the mantle lamps.  All signs of the previous disturbance had been smoothed away by Mrs Hudson once Sherlock had been settled into his bed.

“Pemberley, what is your verdict?”

Pemberley leaned forward in his chair to accept the tumbler of whisky. “Most decent of you, Mycroft.” He paused to take a sip. “The sedative I have administered should see him comfortably through until morning. I will return at ten with the aim of further assessing his condition.”

Mycroft stared into the fire. ”I bear the full responsibility of this.”

“No you do not.” Pemberley’s tone was emphatic. “If blame is to be apportioned, it should be laid at the feet of the Bosch gunner whose fire buried him in that trench. You have done nothing other than to ensure the highest level of care.“

“But this most recent fit is entirely down to me.” Mycroft's hands trembled around his glass. “If my grasp had not slipped, he would not have have been hurt.”

“Your viewpoint is understandable, but your logic has been blurred by shock. It is my belief that this episode could have occurred at any time since his initial injury. It may not happen again, but the risk of such an event may well rule out his return to a more active role overseas, at least in the short term.” Pemberley drained his glass then set it down. “Now, as your doctor, as much as Sherlock’s,  I command you to get some rest yourself. You will be no good to anyone if you’re ill-fed and unrested.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Mycroft saw him out and bolted the door behind him. He extinguished the lamp which Mrs Hudson had left on the hallstand, allowing his feet to find the stairs amongst the shadows.

\---

“Don’t blame the state of your back on me.You chose to sleep there.”

The drawling whisper pulled Mycroft awake some point after six the following morning.He flexed his shoulder and focused on Sherlock’s face in the half-light.

“There are many things of which I could blame you, but not that.” He approached the window and eased the curtains open a fraction. It was scarcely brighter outside than in. “How do you feel this morning?”

“As though someone drugged me.” His voice was still quiet, but gaining in spite. “That fool Pemberley, I suppose.”

“Correct. He deemed it clinically necessary, following your seizure, in order to give you the physiological means to recover.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed. “I -did- not- have- a seizure,” he hissed.

Mycroft took a deep breath. Sherlock, I found you ,shaken and incoherent,  wrapped in the library curtains, surrounded by the debris of the letter from  the new Mrs Trevor. I attempted to lift you onto the chaise, but you resisted. Your head struck the chaise edge, resulting in a seizure.  A brief one, but one of sufficient length to merit medical assistance. Mrs Hudson called Dr Pemberley on my insistence. He examined you and prescribed the half dose. You can berate his clinical choices in person. I am expecting him on the stroke of ten.“

“You dropped me on purpose.” Mycroft’s shields shot up, a fraction too late to save him. The dim light gave him the time to compose his features.

“You squirmed against the contact,” he admitted, “but I could not, in all honesty, leave you in such a miserable state, even though I knew that you would refuse any assistance. I was, to such an extent, complicit in your injury, and I am truly sorry.“ He stared at his treacherous hands. “Whether you choose to believe me or not is entirely your decision,as it ever was. “

A church tower chimed the quarter hour. Mycroft stood and swept the worst of the creases out of his suit. “I have arranged to work here until Dr Pemberley has had another opportunity to examine you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have briefing papers to complete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are days when I curse the internet, and then there are days when it comes to my rescue. I count myself very fortunate that when RL went temporarily tits-up today, I was surrounded by warm and generous souls from here and Twitter. Huge thanks for their kind thoughts go to Callie4180 , MrsNoggin , 221lbjen, VictoriaWoodmaine and EntropicCascade for their sterling work for seeing me right again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A minor misadventure which is easily remedied, followed by a brace of telephone calls.

Watson woke in a tangle of sheets, halfway off the bed, head first. The neat florals of the carpet beneath his bed swam inches from his face. Each movement increased the pain. Breathe, you idiot. No danger here, other than the inevitable slide against gravity. He grasped the sheet with his right hand in an attempt to  slow and soften his landing. 

It did not. A cramp spiked through his back. The instinctive wince loosened his grip on the sheets  and the carpet rushed up towards him with a thump.

A clock chimed three, but otherwise the house was cloaked in silence. No-one had heard him fall, and no-one would be into check on him for several hours yet. He blinked hard against the sparking pain behind his eyes and wondered what was worse, the ache of his injuries or the shame of his helplessness.

And then Sholto was there, in his shirt sleeves, crouching awkwardly on his haunches beside him. “The bed is for sleeping within rather than hiding behind.” Watson couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the inherent smile. ”How long have you been lurking down there?”

Watson lifted his head a fraction. “Not sure, Sir. Since three, I think.” 

“Hmm. Long enough. Breakfast will be round shortly, and you’re a fine sight down here. This will be a bit rough, but there’s no way I’m leaving you lying here with all that nature gave you at risk of escaping. Ready?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now brace yourself.”

Watson was hefted swiftly, if inelegantly, back onto the bed. Sholto felt the hitch in Watson’s breath, then a gasp as consciousness left him. He pressed cautionary fingers to his patient’s neck, and was relieved to feel the steadying pulse beneath them. Watson appeared to be none the worse for his tumble, other than exhausted and aching. Finally, he remade the bed, tucking in the sheets until there was little risk of a repeat incident.

\---

“Good afternoon, Major.” Sholto’s brow quirked. A woman’s voice, confident with youth and education. “Thank you for waiting on the line. I am passing you to the Under Secretary.”

“Most appreciated.” 

“Major Sholto. I appreciate your time, and I will not keep you long. This is merely forward notice that I will be visiting Vernet House later this week on a private matter, and would appreciate a few moments of your time whilst I am there.”

“Most certainly, Sir, provided that I have not been claimed by a clinical emergency. Which day are we to expect you?”

There was a pause, as though a desk diary was being consulted. “Wednesday, at around two o’clock, trains permitting. Until then, Major.”    
“Until then, Sir. Goodbye.” 

Sholto replaced the receiver, then took a moment to order his thoughts. He strode off towards the wards, composing a list of tasks that would need to be completed before the visitation.

\---

“Mycroft!” He pushed the receiver slightly further away from his ear with a grimace.

“ Yes Mother. A lower volume will suffice.”

“It’s a very poor state of affairs if I am not allowed to respond enthusiastically when one of my sons is  able to speak to me. “ There was a pause before she continued in a quieter tone. “All is well, I presume?”

“With me, yes.”   
“And with Sherlock? I’ve barely heard from him since Christmas.” Another, more telling pause. “You haven’t fallen out again, have you?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Holmes takes great delight in receiving a Governmental visitation. Mycroft's emotions are somewhat more contained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK. This is a long one, but I couldn't bring myself to break it down...

The train lost its passengers in a gradual fashion as they left London behind. Mycroft pretended not to be counting each one, only relaxing when the final interloper left their carriage and he could finally put away the Times, which he had read cover to cover twice since they had pulled out of Victoria.  
Miss Metcalfe put away the sock which she had been knitting at blistering speed, and replaced it with her notebook and pencil, awaiting further instructions. But none came. Mycroft opened his attache case and stared blankly inside. Most unusual. "Sir?" she asked after he had been frozen in place for three minutes. He started at her voice; for a moment he looked almost frightened.  
"Ah. Yes. Fine." He swallowed sharply and blinked to regain his focus. "What have you uncovered about Sholto?" Miss Metcalfe’s concerns dissipated somewhat.  
"Nothing too extraordinary. Army appears to be in the bloodstream, along with an abiding passion for rugby. Married briefly; wife died as a result of appendicitis. No children, natural or otherwise, and absolutely spotless of scandal. Wounded in ‘15, attempting to free three soldiers trapped under heavy fire when their transport overturned. His ankle was crushed, resulting in a below knee amputation and a recognition for bravery. Returned to home-based active duty eight months later. Not one word to be heard against him, other than by some of the relatives of the dead, who wrongly believe that more should have been done to save their sons."  
Mycroft’s nod was reward enough. "Most diligent of you. I understand that Captain Watson continues to improve. May I confirm how this information was gathered? " He watched the fraction of a blush taint her cheek as the report continued.  
"As requested, I have kept in discreet contact with Lady Holmes, and have précised the most important elements for you in the silent file. She has been sufficiently careful of her responsibilities to her patient and his right to privacy, by divulging only the most anonymous details in such fashion to which none could object. She has assisted him in the sending of two brief cards to the Stamford family, who hope to visit as soon as their situation allows. It does appear that Dr Watson has not yet realised the significance of his current address."  
"Your attention to detail is admirable." He turned to the relevant page and noted the observations made in Miss Metcalfe’s careful hand. Once more he was indefinably grateful for her decision to apply for a clerical post instead of donning nursing garb. A man of her calibre would have been snapped up by the civil service and be on his way to a post similar to his own, unless deemed medically fit to fight. Perhaps at this point her gender worked in her favour. He would do his utmost to keep her in his office after the war. Jobs for those who returned, be damned.  
"I would like your liaison work with Lady Holmes to continue, especially as it politely discourages her from descending in person. I hope that this is not an overly onerous duty."  
"It has never been that, Sir. It has become apparent through our interactions where at least a portion of your intellect has sprung."  
He smiled. "Just as long as you make it clear that you are not petitioning to become her daughter-in-law."  
"Hardly. I do appreciate my role as your office helpmeet, but I prefer to keep my professional and personal spheres separated by discreet distance."  
 _Most commendable for those who have both_ , thought Mycroft.  
But any further talk of the matter was curtailed by the arrival of the train to Brockenhurst. Mycroft groaned when he spotted the driver of the car sent for them. There would be little chance of escaping his mother's clutches this afternoon after glimpsing her excited wave from behind the steering wheel.  
– – –  
"Right Watson, in your own time. On your feet, round over to the chair, sit down and then back over here.”  
"Sir." Watson grimaced against the pain as he levered himself upright and made his way painfully around the room as prescribed. His clinical mind recognised the progress that he had undoubtedly made in recent days, but the sense of impending steadiness and the callous unreliability of both legs to being equally prepared to bear his weight preyed on him. His leg was healing as well as could be expected; the block to further progress was clearly inside his skull and had to be overcome.  
"That's better, Captain." Sholto stood in the doorway of the converted library. "Slow and steady wins the race." He watched Watson complete the circuit and waited until he had regained his seat on the test his shoulder. “Arms to the front, to the ceiling, to the walls and down. Three complete cycles. And then we’ll see how your hand is progressing. Roll down your sleeves and button the cuffs."  
Watson set to work. The left, under the half – skilled actions of his right hand, was quickly, if clumsily accomplished. The right one was another matter. His fingers clawed at the fabric, rigid and cold. The cloth buttons which he had once prided himself on being able to fasten in pitch black, skittered away like bugs under his unresponsive grip.  
Sholto came to stand by the fireplace . Assisting Watson would be the actions of a second, but would do little to aid his recovery. Muscle memory was hard won and too soon destroyed by injury.  
"Damn my hand!" bellowed Watson, his face pale with fury. What future lay in a doctor who could not even hold a pen, much less a scalpel?. It was hard to determine which would be more difficult to overcome – the shame or the fear of a featureless future.  
There was the swish of cloth against cloth and the discreet squeak of parquet flooring. He came back to himself with a touch of fingers which radiated warmth against the coldness of his unresponsive hand. Sholto was looking down at him. "That'll do for now. Time and practice, that's all you need."  
The inherent deceit of his words washed over them, but both were wise enough to let it flow past unchallenged for now.  
– – –  
"I don't have time for social niceties. This is primarily a regulatory visit to ascertain the success of the requisitioning process."  
Violet Holmes cast a quick look across to Miss Metcalfe , and then another over her shoulder at Mycroft Metcalfe, resplendent in cold civility on the back sea. "Of course, my dear boy. But you cannot blame me for getting a touch excited in my dotage when beloved eldest deigns to make a visit."

Mycroft frowned at the passing greenery. Its freshness offended him. "You are hardly in your dotage, Mother. And whilst I will have time to join you briefly for tea, the majority of my energies will be focused on official business."  
"As it ever was with your father."  
"Such is the life dedicated to the greater good of his Majesty's Government and his people. Sacrifices have to be made."  
"Of course the, but it must suit you. After all, your face seems remarkably free of the tracks of falling brine."  
"Not every member of your family shares the same need for lachrymose behaviour." At least not in public view.  
"And what say you, Miss Metcalfe, has the first dear light of my life nothing more than a stone in his chest in place of a vibrant pulsating organ?"  
Miss Metcalfe was careful to keep her eyes on the road ahead. "I would not presume to know a senior colleague with such intimacy."  
Violet chuckled. "I can see why Mycroft hooked you out of the clerical pool. Very well, I will pry no further, but I will spirit you away for a short time - with his Lordship's approval - perhaps during his interview with Major Sholto? After all, men seem to speak more freely when they are unembarrassed by the presence of higher female intellect."  
"I make no comment, Ma'am."  
"Less of the formality, my dear. You're amongst allies here, not the dusty whatnots of Himself's office. The fact that he alone recognises your professional qualities is their failing, not yours."  
Miss Metcalfe's smile became a genuine one. "Received and understood, Lady Holmes."  
– – –  
"Good afternoon, sir. I trust you had a smooth journey?"  
Mycroft inclined his head in greeting. "Adequately, Major. I am grateful that you could spare the time from your clinical duties to see me this afternoon this is not an inspection of your team, more of a monitoring visit to ensure that the requisitioned property has been able to adapt to the demands of a hospital."  
"I have had no complaints on that score." They paused at the bottom of the main staircase. "If I may, I would like to take you on a tour so that you may see for yourself how we have been able to use what we have been so freely offered." Mycroft turned his head away from Sholto and raised an eyebrow. An interesting choice of phrase - but he followed with an  air of apparent acceptance of military authority. They continued up to the first floor.  
"We have three major wards here, each holding up to twelve men, along with a number of individual rooms to be used as required. To your left is now our main treatment room." Mycroft dutifully followed him through the public areas of his former home as though he hadn't spent his earliest years sliding down the banisters and setting traps for unpleasant servants. Conceding that his mother had made an excellent decision caused him less consternation than he had expected; the basic material of the house had been carefully protected and the buzz of human activity behind the discreetly closed doors certainly added rather than detracted from the dignity of the family pile.  
The tour ended where it had begun, outside the former music room which Sholto had taken as his office. He unlocked the door and showed Mycroft inside.  
"I believe you would appreciate somewhere for a quiet word, Mr Holmes." Mycroft’s surprise was consciously limited to the fractional blink. "You have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Sigerson." His gaze hardened. "I am not surprised, given the numbers which must pass under your inspection daily."  
Sholto rounded his desk and nestled his stethoscope into the top drawer. "I haven't spent the last few weeks in the environs of this house not to recognise one of its sons, no matter how well you will attempt to bury any sign of ownership, Sir. Besides, you appear to have inherited more than a little of the politely steadfast nature of the lady of the house, as well as your undeniable resemblance to the portrait that we have recently passed." Sholto made himself comfortable in a chair and motioned Mycroft to do the same. "Now can you tell me why you are really here? Your remit at the War Office appears somewhat vague and all-pervasive."  
"Each profession has its secrets, Major. I do have a role in ensuring that requisitioned properties are both suitable for purpose and appropriately treated, but I had no hand in this particular case. That decision was not mine to make. As for my name, I choose to be known by the surname belonging to a maternal ancestor, the better to deal with the Scandinavian and middle European elements of the diplomatic circle. The Holmes pool is a clouded and overpopulated one; Sigerson is far rarer, at least on this side of the North Sea."  
Sholto conceded that. "Understandable, given the context." He considered Mycroft's profile, as if cataloguing points of similarity between his face and that of Lady Holmes. "I believe we have a few minutes more. Is there anything that you wish to ask?"  
Now was his chance. "Two things. What can you tell me of the progress of Captain Watson? He has been under your care and that of my mother for some weeks now."  
"I will not discuss the progress of my patients with anyone other than those who are clinically involved without the full consent of the patient. To do otherwise is a breach of the strictest confidentiality, a concept of which I know you are fully aware. Captain Watson is one of thirty-five patients here. I am indebted to Lady Holmes’ diligent care and her assistance in the efficient running of domestic affairs. Her insight, intelligence and willingness to contribute are to be commended. I am sure that the transition of this house from private residence to military convalescent hospital would have proved infinitely more challenging than it has been without her knowledge and influence." His tone was even and almost friendly, although tempered with just the edge of his authority. "I take it that you have another question?" Mycroft took a breath as if ready to speak, but Sholto gave him no opportunity to take over.

"While I value Lady Holmes's contributions to the running of this hospital in all the many ways that she does, there is absolutely no understanding on either side to expand such a connection into any scenario other than genuine friendship. You may rest easy in your Whitehall den about that."  
Mycroft levelled his gaze. "Somewhat presumptuous of you to know a lady's mind on the basis of a few weeks."  
Sholto shrugged. "You are hardly the first elder adult son attempting to protect his mother, albeit in a somewhat endearingly ham-fisted fashion. My father succumbed to a heart attack when I was on the verge of qualifying, leaving a bewildered widow who was easily influenced by soft words and a winning demeanour. Back then, a widow in the possession of comfortable income was seen to be surely in need of a second husband in the eyes of the unscrupulous. However, from my perspective, creating such a union for the reason of personal enrichment was the action of a cad, however the law might view it."His eyes grew fiercer for a moment. “As it remains so.”

It had been some years since Mycroft had been forced to recognise such an error of judgement but refused to take it as a defeat. "It is good to note that we are of similar minds on this issue. The continued welfare and happiness of my mother is second only to that of my younger brother, who is somewhat more the challenge than the lady of this house." He stood and gave Sholto a quick nod. "I am of the understanding that our presence will be expected at the tea table. Shall we?"  
"Certainly."  
As they left the room, each became aware that they had passed the test in the other's eyes. They would never be friends in the strictest sense, but sufficient common ground had been cleared for a certain level of respect to flourish.  
– – –  
"I feel as though I should apologise for Mycroft's behaviour."  
Sholto looked for the comfort of his armchair. Lady Holmes sat in its twin on the other side of the fire. "Unnecessary when they are merely the actions of a concerned and awkwardly devoted son."  
"I'm glad that you see it that way." She gazed into the fire. "He was barely eighteen when Thomas died and only one term into his time at Cambridge. And whilst he does not express his affection with the same energy as my younger son, I have never doubted its depth. One day, I hope he will find someone who has the ability to support him in the same way that Thomas did me."  
"Perhaps he will. There is no doubt he is a credit to you."  
" As he ever was."  
Sholto drained his cup and reunited it with its saucer. "I must return to my rounds."  
"Good evening, Major."  
"Good evening, Lady Holmes."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The issue of Captain Watson's future looms ahead as his recovery continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for semi canonical suicidal ideation (BBC not ACD)

"You do have your own bed." Mycroft frowned at the expanse of brother huddled under a blanket on the chaise.

"I prefer to think in here. Mrs Hudson must have appeared while I was in my mind palace and covered me with this thing."

"And yet you remain comfortably ensconced beneath it."

"Less effort than lighting the fire," came the sullen admission.

Mycroft grinned and lit the gas lamp. He took a measured look at Sherlock's face. There were still owlish circles space under his eyes and a certain paler tone to his skin, but that had to be expected in one who slept less than four hours a night, on the nights that he chose so to do. "Mother sends her love as always. It appears that she is enjoying her new role as hospital chatelaine. She even found time to pack up these." He dangled a string-wrapped box just of the reach of his brother.

Sherlock eyed it suspiciously. "I doubt that there is anything left in that box," he growled.

"Once you've washed your hands, you can find out. I do _not_ wish to know the nature of that stench coming from your room. I trust that you will dispose of anything noxious in an appropriate manner before Mrs Hudson encounters it and rightly has an attack of the vapours."

"Unlikely. Mrs Hudson gives off the impression of one who is beyond such bourgeoise inanities. Give me the box, please."

"Not until you're suitably cleansed. Now off with you, before I'm tempted to open it…"

"You wouldn't…"

Mycroft smiled. "I am but a man, easily tempted…" He set the box on the occasional table, the better to tease at its ties. Sherlock bolted from the room. Mycroft listened to the splashing and gurgling  coming from the bathroom. He shrugged off his overcoat and hung it on its hook.

Mrs Hudson appeared as if on cue, carrying three cups of cocoa on the tray. “How was your mother? I hope that you passed on my dearest regards."

"As all-seeing as ever . She passes the same back to you. You are just in time to share some of the biscuits she packed up for me to bring home."

"Those are _mine_. " The door to the bathroom flew open, revealing  a barefoot but cleansed Sherlock in a smoking jacket over a fresh shirt. "I will decide with whom I share them."

"As is your prerogative, brother dear." Mycroft turned to Mrs Hudson. "This is most kind of you to bring cocoa, but I must return to my desk. If I may?" He took one of the cups and headed for his study.  
She turned to Sherlock. "He is working far too hard."

"No he isn't," he sniped. "That would demonstrate a level of effort of which he is incapable."

"Said the man who barely lifted his carcass from the furniture today, only to be so rude to someone fulfilling family obligations."

"He only went because he was dying of curiosity regarding the enigmatic Major Sholto." Sherlock took the tray from Mrs Hudson and led her into the sitting room.

So I take it that the visit went well?"

"The fact that His Odiousness has not returned with murder in his soul suggests this. No doubt my royal summons will arrive in the next post."

Mrs Hudson lent across and cuffed the back of his head. He tried not to wince. "Every mother longs to see her children."

"Somewhat of a sweeping overstatement, but no doubt I will see her next week, depending on the file demands that the Office place on me." Sherlock took hold of the cardboard box and deftly undid the securely tied strings.his eyes widened with a measure of delight when the contents were revealed. "Ginger thin, Mrs Hudson?"

"Delighted, my dear. Most kind of you." She nibbled delicately at her biscuit while Sherlock grinned at her through a mouthful of crumbs. Boys never grew up, only taller.

– – –

The summer blossomed around Vernet House, allowing her patients to wander outside during daylight hours.

Sholto scanned the gardens until he found his man. He approached quietly noting the fierce concentration of Watson's face as he applied pen to paper, to the point barely noticed the boots that crunched against the gravel until the shadow touched his feet.

"Sir." Watson made to stand but was waved down.

"No need of that, Doctor." Sholto glanced at the workmanlike studies of the house on which Watson had been working. "That's coming along a treat."

 "I'd rather be sketching than making another of those bloody baskets. Or knitting.  And somewhat more effective at rebuilding fine motor skills."

Sholto hummed. "I've certainly seen some improvement. You've been here six weeks now, and your progress remains pleasing. I would now like you to think about what will happen once you leave."

Watson stilled. "And what will that entail… Sir?"

Sholto cast a quick look around them to ensure that there was no one within earshot, then took a seat on the bench. "Despite your recovery and determination to return to service, I am increasingly aware that you are highly unlikely to recover sufficiently to return to your post. A doctor who limps is one thing, but one with an  intermittent tremor is another."

The greyness seeped over him. Yet again, Watson wished he had  never boarded that train or responded to the odd little girl in the next carriage. "So what now?" It was hard to keep the frustration out of his voice.

"I will petition the authorities to ensure you receive whatever pension can be awarded along with assistance to usher you back into civilian life." He looked down and saw his struggle to maintain composure. "I deeply regret this, I truly do, but I am duty-bound to act in the best interests of all concerned.You won't lose your certification. In fact, I would recommend you for teaching, if you feel that such a role would suit."

Watson studied his hands for a long time. "I understand that you’ll be needing the bed, Sir. Can't waste valuable resources on a discharge, even an honourable one."

"Now please don’t think I am in no mood to chivvy you out, not least because I have to be fully convinced that your rehabilitation will be successful. Only then will I process your discharge papers."  
"Where am I to go? I have no functioning family and precious few connections outside the regiment."

Sholto shifted uncomfortably. "There is some accommodation available around the country for individuals such as yourself, and there would be an element of choice about where you could be sent."

Watson's brain tried to spur itself into life. London would mean being close to Stamford and his happy villa in Norwood, and Bart's, if they would have him. "I would prefer London, if at all possible."

Sholto patted his arm. "Fair enough. I'll start to put feelers out. Remember there's more than one way to win a war."

Watson nodded mutely as he watched Sholto retreat into the house, trying to ignore the cloud of self-pity welling in his brain. He was a good man, doing his damnedest for his patients, just as Watson should have been doing.

  
_Damn this sodding shoulder_. The Army had been his life for the last twelve years, in peace and in war. It was the only family that he had known since his mother's death. Army pay had supported Harriet before the asylum place became available. He had savings squirrelled away from better times, but they would last at best a year, if that, at London prices. And there would be a pension of course, but the fact he had not  been injured in the line of duty would no doubt reduce that.  

His brain was  haunted by the shuffling broken souls he'd glimpsed on the streets whilst on leave. Young, capable men who'd gone over the Channel full of life, only to return damaged beyond repair and with uncertain futures before them. Now he was one of them, at thirty-five, with no sense of what would follow. he could full understand why those with the opportunity might choose a way out and sod the spiritual consequences. Just as well he currently lacked most of the means for a quick, clean exit.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally succumbs to maternal pressure and visits Vernet House.

My darling boy!" Sherlock found himself engulfed by a maternal octopus as soon as he crossed the threshold. "It's so good to see you again."  
Sherlock gave her a sidelong glance. "It's only been three months, Mama." And a mere fortnight since Mycroft’s visit. He disengaged from her embrace as soon as he was able. "I find on the verge of bearable to see you."  
"High praise indeed. Where is your brother?"  
"Still chained to his desk, allegedly. Something to do with a ministerial briefing at the Diogenes."  
Lady Holmes reached up and flicked the rim of his ear. He frowned.  
"Very childish of you, Mama."  
She smirked at him. "The punishment fits the crime. Now hurry along. Dinner will be in exactly twenty two minutes."  
"Must I dress? Hardly seems worth it."  
"Clean hands, clean face and tamed hair will suffice. We will be eating downstairs as the dining room has been transformed into Ward Three. Major Sholto will be joining us." She watched a certain disdain flit across his features. "He is keen to meet you. You will sit nicely and you will be polite."  
"Will I now?" But they both knew the question was a rhetorical one.  
She linked her arm through his as they ascended the stairs. “The whole of downstairs, bar the servants’ hall, has been requisitioned. There are five doctors, headed by Major Sholto, and about another thirty ancillary staff living near or around the estate. My only request was that they left our personal rooms alone. Everything else was surplus to our current requirements.” She tugged sharply on his sleeve when she saw his face. “Now don’t look at me like that, Sherlock. No-one had set foot in either the music room or the library in years. The piano is perfectly safe, as are the books. I made very sure of that.”  
“And where might I be allowed to practise if I so wish? The haybarn?”  
“I don’t think the Land Army women would appreciate that. Try the summer house.”  
Sherlock glowered as they paused outside the door to his room. “Is my playing still as abhorrent as when I was ten?”  
She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Not in the slightest, but there are others around who need their sleep. Now am I forgiven?”  
“Perhaps.” A vague smirk threatened to crack his scowl. Mama was not Mycroft, for all the blood they shared. He could never stay angry with her for long.  
\---  
Dinner had been surprisingly agreeable, even whilst sharing the table with Sholto. Mycroft had been spot-on; even Sherlock had to admit that the man was a breed apart from the general parade of military idiots.  
"Off to the sitting room, the pair of you. I believe that the fire requires that some masculine attention." Lady Holmes rose, and they obeyed meekly.  
"Your mother has been immensely kind to my staff."  
Sherlock crouched in front of the fire on the balls of his feet, poking life into the dormant embers. Sholto's words faded from him as though coming from a distant room he continue to poke the fire like an automaton whose mechanism had jammed. He was on the verge of rocking forward when practiced hands guided him into one of the fireside chairs.  
"Easy now, Mr Holmes.” Sholto's voice stayed soft. "All safe and sound."  
The poker fell from Sherlock’s grasp with a clang. He flinched and his startled eyes sprang open. Sholto returned the poker to its spot next to the scuttle. "Had many of those?" he asked.  
"A few," Sherlock admitted. "Not many since returning to London as far as I am aware, other than a full seizure some weeks back." An increased awareness returned to his eyes. "A childhood affliction which I had hoped to outgrow."  
"It is your mother aware of the more recent occurrences?"  
"No." He was vehement, sudden and a touch frightened. "And it will stay that way."  
Sholto inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Your medical history is your own to share or conceal as you wish."  
"Your discretion is appreciated."  
"Just as long as you keep the welfare and safety of those nearest to you in mind."  
Sherlock frowned. "Most likely my brother?"  
Sholto's smile was a brief, sharp illumination of his face. "Brothers are a law unto themselves. I am sure yours would say the same."  
"Oh, that is a wonderful effort!" Lady Holmes swept into the room with cocoa. Sholto drank his at an appreciative dawdle, then excused himself for his final rounds. Lady Holmes turned back to Sherlock, eyes sharpening and calculating as she spotted the strain around his eyes. Her mouth tightened.  
"The old spells have returned." Sherlock shrank back in his chair, the better to hide in the shadows. There was no lying to her. After all, she had taught Mycroft, Sherry and then him the power which lay in deductive observations.  
"Occasionally," he replied, attempting to shrug off her concerns. "It’s not as though I have control over them."  
"Clearly, but keeping steady hours without undue emotional turmoil will go a long way to prevent them."  
"Sayeth the woman who fled the school room for the marriage market at seventeen."  
Lady Holmes shot him a pointed look. "The lot of most intelligent women of my era. There are very few advantages to my sex over yours."  
"Other than an exemption from the battlefield…"  
"Ours is the grief, concern and care. You might be a man in the eyes of the world, but in my heart you're still the squalling bundle with impossible hair." She gave him an odd smile.  
"It could be suggested that little has changed, other than my vocabulary and the length of my limbs."  
"Perhaps."  
He rose from his chair and pressed a kiss on her upturned face. “All that has changed is the shade of your hair. I apologise for any of that silver which is down to me." She reached for his hand.  
"I would not have you any other way. I lost one son long ago. I would prefer not to lose another in my lifetime." He paused, drinking in the depth of her eyes.  
"I'll do my best to stay whole and hale entirely for your benefit, Mama. Goodnight."  
"Goodnight."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small hours of the night yield comfort for the sleepless and the lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the slow burn of friendship starts...

Sherlock paced the length of his room. Most of the house would be asleep by now, other than those on the night shift. His fingers itched for his violin, but Mama had made herself very clear on that point – not inside the house.  
The window sash was flung up as an inpatient arm thrust out, testing for temperature and moisture. Acceptable, if marginally chilly; to be expected in the smallest hours of night. Little had changed in this garden other than the replacement of overblown roses with a new vegetable plots, the better to feed those who were now living here. Recovering patients were clearly looking after the grounds with as much care as the professionals had done before the war. He reached the summerhouse and ran his hand along the lintel of the door until the hidden key fell into it.  
Stepping inside took him back to being ten and proudly grasping a smaller version of the violin he now played. Mama had endured the screeching agonies of his first week of practice before sweetly suggesting that he might wish to perfect his technique away from the house. The summerhouse had just been constructed, which he was free to make his own if he wished. He hadn't understood what was happening, enraged at the injustice of such a banishment, especially while Mycroft lorded over the piano in the music room. No doubt he was the one behind this claiming his need to study in preparation of Cambridge. But such a request, when phrased by Mama, could not be ignored. He spent the whole of that summer traipsing across the lawns each day just after breakfast to lessen the screeches and make the strings sing under his fingers.  
It had worked. Eventually Mycroft took pity on the little exile, and helped him turn it into a pirate’s cabin with cotton bunting and coils of rope. Occasionally he'd stay as an audience, secretly thrilled that ‘Lock had found the means of escape which had so far eluded him.  
The adult Sherlock dismissed the memory with a wave. He set the violin case on the table and flipped open the lid. The air was fresh and cool, a world away from the fustiness of London. A delicious shiver ran up his spine bonus bring, as he set the bow onto the strings, pushing a lilting, soaring melody into the atmosphere.  
The solitude was blissful. He ran through the piece twice, before merging into something of his own making; delicate, half lullaby half song to the distant moon. He closed his eyes as it wrapped around him like a scarf.  
\---  
Watson woke in a tangle of blankets just after three o'clock, wide-eyed and gasping. The floor bit into his good shoulder and his head ached. _Shit. Not again. This was no fucking good_. He levered himself to his feet and focused on breathing. _Deep. Calm. Slow. Deep. Calm. Slow. Sort it out, you pillock._  
The night looked cool and deliciously silent beyond the glass, where the moon winked at him. Anything would be better than being trapped in here.  
Five minutes later he had escaped. The grass was lush and soft under his bare feet. The panic dissipated as his senses returned him to rationality.He was as safe as he could be, as healthy as he was likely to be. He had to be thankful for that.  
He stirred on the curve of the grass, surveying the moonlit landscape. No light except that of the moon and stars. No sound other than the hoot and call of owls in the wood. No, not quite. There was something else. He remained stock still, ears straining for the sound. Yes. There it was again. Perhaps distorted on the breeze but very much there. He turned his feet towards it and began to walk.  
They took him to a stretch of the grounds he'd never seen before, close to the family rooms of the house. A modest summer house sheltered in the lea of a hedge, part–shaded by the canopy of an oak which probably outdated the house and everything else. As he grew closer, a bench appeared amongst its shadows.  
The music was so much brighter, louder, clearer now. Once or twice, after he'd sat down, he thought he'd recognised snatches of melody before the tune twisted away from recognition. And so it continued, in sinuous ribbons of sound . The mystery of it all entranced him. His understanding of music had started and finished with the battered red book which have lived with his grandmother's piano stool. Hymn tunes, folksongs, and snatches of the less scandalous music hall acts had emerged from under her fingers. But in the end, the piano had gone to Harriet not him. Possessors of academic scholarships had too many books to read and essays to write to become entwined with anything as frivolous as music.

And so it passed him by. He recognised the talent of those who could play at times, and had even come to appreciate the skill it took, but not even Williams' presence on his staff could truly educate his ears. Too little, too late, he accepted. Until now. He was now perhaps ten feet away from the summer house door. Opening it would be the action of a moment, even with his aching joints and unsteady gait. But what then? His confidence had evaporated. He would just sit here until it returned. Listening would be enough for now.  
– – –  
He may have appeared to be entirely immersed in his music, but Sherlock  kept a fraction of his consciousness for his surroundings. Someone was approaching the summer house. They paused under the tree, then sat on Sherry's bench. _Curious_.  
He swirled across the space, eyes straining to the scrap of night he could glimpse through the shutters. A man – smaller than average – pale hair silvered by the moon – well washed pyjamas and dressing gown – bare feet.Tired out of his mind, or so it seemed.  
Sherlock continued to play, but now the notes from his violin softened and slowed. His practising had a higher purpose now. After all, an unconscious subject was easier to observe and the least likely to object. Sleep arrived sooner than he had expected. Sherlock observed the gradual slump of the head and counted the breaths of the dozing man as they slowed and deepened. There. He took his violin under one arm and snatched the blankets. His audience deserved to be comfortable.   
The storm lantern was snuffed out before he stepped out, pulling the door silently behind him. The afternoon’s drizzle had revived the grass, leaving only a whisper of moisture behind. The ground around the roots would be dry enough to perch upon. He murmured an apology to his violin when he briefly nestled it in the tree roots, because the blanket demanded two hands.  
Sherlock lifted the feet of the sleeping man to rest on the bench and draped the blanket over him.The moon chose that moment to break completely clear of its cosseting clouds. Silvered light, almost as sharp as day, filtered through the tree branches. A shaft illuminated the features of a man who trembled, even in sleep. Sherlock froze for the second time, half-appalled by the sight. Captain John Watson, RAMC, was a husk of the man who had dealt with his retching and cheek with equal poise and humour less than a year ago.  
_This would not do_. A solution had to be found.He retrieved his violin from the roots which had cradled it and sat down, pushing his head back until he could feel every knot of the bark beneath his skin.He stayed there, ferociously still, as night faded into dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit a of week, albeit one with a happy ending. The support of my fandom friends got me through. I feel truly blessed to know you all. Thank you.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Watson wakes to find he is not alone...

The prickly sense of being watched pulled Watson from sleep.The last thing he was sure of was waking up on the edge of a nightmare with the ferocious determination to escape the clammy room. How being part of the cool night brought him away from that. And then the music, which had drawn him down to the bench under the tree, too unsure to take the final few steps to find the source.  
Someone had seen fit to cover him with a blanket, for which he was grateful. It may have been a bright morning, but they were still at start of the edges of a damp and awkward summer. He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at the turned slats of the bench back. A carved mouse peered back at him, captured perfectly in wood and varnish.

  
"My brother's nickname was Mouse, Captain Watson." Watson blinked, then pushed through the pain as he turned his body to face the voice. A hand cupped his shoulder before he lost his balance.

"Thanks." He leant into the hand and allowed its assistance to safely return him to an upright position. It felt as though his face burned twice over with the sun as well as the continued impact of a pair of eyes which he almost remembered. He stared back at the man leaning against the tree. "You have me at a disadvantage. Care to remind me who you are?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, formerly Corporal in the Royal Signallers."

Watson's eyebrow quirked. _That one_. "You’re somewhat early for a visitor.”

"Not entirely. It was either this or ensure a maternal visitation in London."

"You seemed to have recovered well."

Sherlock shrugged. "As much as I ever was going to, give or take some minor scarring. Childhood epilepsy made a recent reappearance, and effectively imprisoned me behind a Whitehall desk, thus bringing me into near-daily contact with my odious sibling."

"Oh, the two-yard tailored stretch of pomp and secrecy. How goes it with him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Regretfully well. He thrives on the daily drama of governmental minutiae. But while I’m glad to regain your acquaintance, I am somewhat peturbed to find you are a patient here."

"As I am." Watson swung his legs to the ground. "I survived three years in a front-line dressing station, only to have a bloody Zeppelin take a fancy to my train on the way back to the regiment." His voice grew bitter. "Might as well been done for, for all it's left me with. Not much use to the men in green, or those in white either."

"My condolences." All the levity left Sherlock's voice. His eyes crinkled with concern. "Where are they suggesting you go now?"

John huffed. "Buggered if I know. Not much use work as an army surgeon with an on-off limp and a lack of fine motor control in my dominant hand. Teaching is being strongly suggested…"

"… but being faced with the breathless, shiny–faced future cannon fodder holds little appeal?"

"Something like that. But pensioners can't be choosers, or I'll end up under newspapers in Vauxhall Gardens."

Sherlock stuck the hand free of his violin fiercely into his trouser pocket. _Not if I had anything to do with it_. An uneasy silence began, but was interrupted by the rising call of a strident female voice.

"There you are, you incorrigible runaround! I do not have the time to fit our breakfast around your inability to sleep, wash or dress appropriately for company." Sherlock immediately stood up straight, looking directly at the slope rising towards the house. Watson was sorely tempted to turn around, but the sudden pain in his shoulder locked him in place. "One of our patients is missing…" He heard the urgent swish of skirts and advancing steps behind him as Lady Holmes grew near. He gritted his teeth and stood up.

"Ma'am, I apologise for any inconvenience  I may have caused you…" Her hand brushed his arm.

"Ah.” Her tirade ceased. When she spoke again, the frustration had vanished from her voice. I trust all is well, Captain?"

He turned to face her. "Thank you. I sought refuge in your gardens after a nightmare, going by the window so as not to unduly alarm others. Being outside distracted me to the point that I dropped off to sleep again on this bench.I regret being the focus of concern."

Her smile warmed him. "You’re hardly the first to find comfort here.” Her eyes flicked less generously over to Sherlock. "And while I’m glad that _you_ followed my request to use the summerhouse, I didn't expect you to be playing all night."

Sherlock sighed. "It was hardly all night, Mama. Even my fingers would not have coped with that."

“And yet your bed remains untouched."

“Not every soul requires to waste precious hours in mindless sleep." He allowed his violin to dangle by the neck in his fingers. "I sleep when I am tired, and no sooner. Now I believe that you mentioned breakfast?"

Lady Holmes drew herself up stiffly and fixed him with a stare. "Such a meal will be available at the point you present yourself in an appropriately outfitted state, or you will be consigned to the scullery steps with a tin mug and a jammed crust."

Sherlock bowed his head, before catching Watson's eye with a wink. "As you wish, Mama. Captain Watson, may I find you later?"

"Of course," replied Watson.

And with that, Sherlock was gone, swishing his violin in wild but secure arcs as though it was a scimitar, instead of a near-priceless antique. Lady Holmes watched his retreating back with maternal exasperation, then turned back to Watson. "I can see that you have a number of questions on your mind. If you care to join us for breakfast, I will do my best to enlighten you."

He smiled. "That will be most decent of you, Ma'am." She offered him her arm which he graciously waved away.

"Then may I accompany you on the walk back?"

"But of course." He stood straighter, then blushed, suddenly remembering his outfit He gripped the blanket tighter to him with his stronger hand.

She smiled indulgently. "Might I take this opportunity to remind you that I have seen a great deal worse than someone in creased pyjamas.” She felt in her skirt pocket and pulled out a prodigious kilt pin, with which she pinned the edges of his blanket to form a cloak. "You deserve a medal for the way you have connected with my son. Many have tried; most have given up at the first offensive or unpleasant remark."

Watson inclined his head with gracious, amused acknowledgement. "More fool them." 

Their walk was  completed  in friendly silence.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea, quarrelsome sympathy and a certain understanding.

"You never told me that he was here."

"You never asked, my dear. And then there was the issue of patient confidentiality to consider." Lady Holmes poured a fresh cup of tea and passed it across to Sherlock, who accepted it with dubious grace. 

"But why here?" he demanded.

Her shrug was graceful. "I think you overestimate my power. I offered the house a suitable location before it was forcibly requisitioned. I wished to be of more use than merely collecting items of the Red Cross or organising sales of work." She sipped at her tea. "Besides, this house is in need of repopulation, and the proximity to the railway station made an obvious choice for a hospital or convalescent home at the very least."  
"You're avoiding the question. How, above all the other places to which Captain Watson could have been sent, was he bought here?"

"Sherlock, what makes you think that such secrets would be shared with me? I am just another Widow Do-Well in the eyes of the Army. I have never had either the right of request or veto as to who was brought here. Captain Watson was sent here and I endeavoured to ensure that he received the best possible care, as I would any other patient."

Their eyes met; Sherlock noted the soft fire in hers, and allowed her to continue. "I was aware that he was significantly responsible for your initial treatment. His dressing station received a Christmas parcel in grateful thanks.”

"This reeks of Mycroft."

"Perhaps, but only as far as identifying where you were treated, and that was for the best possible reasons. Your brother loves you, despite your best attempts to dislodge his regard."

"He needs to learn that other people are not part of his chess set."

"And what would you prefer to happen? Allow a decent, honourable man, to whom you owe your life, to crumble into nothing as a result of an act of civilian heroism?" She glared directly at him now.

"How much do you know?"

"I am not at liberty to say," replied Lady Holmes, "other than his injuries were the result of a courageous choice. If he had not been present to look after you as he did, I might have been mourning the loss of another son way before their time. I owe him  a great deal, and so do you." He sniffed. " I reserve the right to object to your joint experiments in social engineering."

She leant over and laid a hand on his arm. "Sherlock, you do not hold a pivotal role in the universe. And even if Mycroft  did have a hand in  these events, he did it in gratitude for the assistance that was offered you."

Sherlock looked down into his cup as if it had personally offended him. He waited for a moment, as if hunting down an appropriate response. "Should I consider myself duly reprimanded?" His voice was considerably quieter now.

"Yes, but with seeing so little of you now, it is easy for me  to forget that your intellect often crowds out your emotions. Please treat this is a coincidence, nothing more. Captain Watson was in need of somewhere to recover, and the place provided was here. I am led to understand that his recovery is almost complete to the point where he will be able to move on." Sherlock blinked himself out of his own self-pity.

"Where to? He’s half the man I met was last year."

"That is for the Army to decide, my love. He belongs to them, after all."

– – –

"Ready?" Watson looked up from the struggle with his tie and saw Lady Holmes in the mantle glass. He acknowledged her reflection. "I apologise for any concern I may have caused you this morning." The smile she gave it would warmed the ice caps.

"You are forgiven although perhaps you should address such a response to Major Sholto, as his initial concern outweighed mine."

A shade crossed Watson's face. "I will speak to him as soon as his duties allow."

"That would be the action of a wise man." She watched his hands fumble with the cufflinks and discreetly averted her eyes."I understand that you may be leaving us shortly."

"So it might seem. Major Sholto is currently coordinating my papers, I believe."

"Will you be returning to your unit?" 

They both knew the answer, but chose to ignore it.

"I've yet to receive confirmation of what will happen, as I've not received medical clearance."

"Where will you go?" 

He shrugged. "I would prefer London, if my pension allows." The doubt in his voice was tangible, but he pulled a brighter countenance from somewhere. " It has been suggested that there may be opportunities for me within the teaching hospitals."

"Is that something you would enjoy?"

"I'd find a way to do so, ma'am.” His mouth turned into a tight fine line. "I will be grateful for what I still have." The cufflinks slipped out all his fingers and bounced across the rug. "Blast! -Sorry." He scanned the floor, unable to find the escapee.

"Here." Lady Holmes swooped to the floor and located it. She held them out. "Might I be allowed to assist?"

Watson acquiesced with an awkward nod. "Thank you for letting me try." He held out his wrist and watched as her fingers tamed the unruly cloth,ever practical, never piteous.

"Accepting help does not diminish you."

"I am beginning to understand and accept that idea. Thank you."

"It may take some time, but it need not be a lonely journey." Her hand slipped away from his wrist.

"I hope not."

"I came to collect you for that previously promised breakfast. I left my delinquent son in brief charge of the teapot. We would both appreciate your company."

He took a final look in the mantle glass. "I would be delighted. Thank you again."

"My pleasure."  



	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock encounters an unexpected visitor. His reaction surprises even him.

"What are you doing here?"  
Mycroft folded his copy of the Times with surgical precision before responding to Sherlock's indignant question.  
"Because my work will take me –" there was a moment before his inner censor took over. "– a certain distance away from England for the foreseeable future. I thought it wise to inform mother personally of this."  
Sherlock stalked over to the opposite armchair. "And how long have you known this would be happening?"  
"Approximately eight hours. I will be leaving this evening."  
"Not like you to be nominated for legwork. I presume they are aware of your history?"  
Mycroft inspected his nails carefully. "A full medical was undertaken. I doubt that the governmental doctors would miss my frailties." He watched the concern edge across Sherlock's face.  
"Why you?"  
"Because it appears my particular expertise in international cat herding is required elsewhere. It is unlikely that will land me in more danger than crossing Oxford Street in the fog, but…"  
"– but you would prefer to ensure that all loose ends are tied it before your departure?"  
Lady Holmes stalked into the sitting room. Mycroft rose awkwardly to his feet a fraction before she pulled him into a ferocious embrace, the speed of which forced him into compliance.  
"I am not heading towards mortal peril, Mother," he declared to the air over her shoulder, as though trying to convince himself of this truth. "It is merely a period of diplomatic isolation for as long as the operation takes. I will not be able to undertake anything more than the most cursory of communications due to unpredictable intervals. Hence my visit today."  
Lady Holmes released him into the seat on the chaise. "So what will happen about your things in Sigerson House?"  
"There will be a consignment arriving later, to be stored in the East attic."  
"Rather presumptuous of you, brother," Sherlock remarked dryly. "How do you know that it hasn't been stuffed with yet more VADs?"  
Lady Holmes shot him a sharp look. "Because I requested that the attics be left for the storage of our personal items as required," she replied. "Where do you think your bat collection went, Sherlock? It is not as though I could leave it in the library. The hospital staff deal with enough physical viscera as it is."  
Sherlock crossed his arms in defiance. "I'll have it moved forthwith. I would not want it polluted by by being stored in the presence of your detritus, Mycroft."  
"Miss Metcalfe will be here later to assist with the smooth transfer of my boxes. Please ensure that you do not encumber her."  
Lady Holmes brightened slightly at the thought. She always appreciated the company of that young woman. "Will she be accompanying you on your travels?" Mycroft shook his head.  
"Sadly, no. She will be continuing in her role as office administrator in my absence, and will be coordinating all personal communications."  
"I will miss you." Mycroft looked across with some surprise at the quiet and chastened Sherlock. He did his best to smile back, but failed.  
"As will I, brother dear, in the most curious of ways, but I'm heading off on a bureaucratic mission, not going to the moon," he quipped. "The diplomatic bag will provide the best means of reaching me, whenever I am be able to respond."  
Lady Holmes’ eyes grew rounder and ever softer. "And there will be no way of telling us where you will be going?"  
"None at all, I'm afraid." He examined his cuffs, picking at flecks of dirt he imagined to be there. "Now, if you’ll pardon me, there are a few matters that require my attention. If you would both excuse me…" He nodded at them both then headed out, eyes fixed firmly ahead of him.  
Lady Holmes sat down on the chaise once more, but this time Sherlock joined her, awkwardly aware of his own inability to offer comfort, other than by his silent presence.  
\---  
The daily routines at the hospital continued, the staff completely unaware of the fragile emotions of the family at its very heart. Mycroft's crate arrived, which he locked securely away in the farthest corner of the attic. His mother was waiting for him on the porch. He cupped her cheek with his hand, to check the trace of a tear. She pressed her lips to his hand, then took a deep breath before retreating upstairs, a smile bravely clinging to her face.  
Sherlock leaned against the bonnet of the car, his nonchalance eggshell-thin. Mycroft eyed him warily. "Are you ensuring my departure?"  
Sherlock shot him as a sarcastic look. "Hardly. There's a whole department focused on that. Are you really the latest salvo in ending this stupidity?"  
"So it appears." He pushed one well-polished shoe against the gravel. "They might as well send the good after the bad."  
"Why did you go chasing after Sholto earlier?"  
Mycroft's eyebrows shot up with disapproval. "I do believe you meant to say Major Sholto," he replied in an icy tone. “I merely brought his attention to a particular idea which has been gaining favour in reference to the treatment and rehabilitation of those whose injuries preclude them from further military service." He stared directly at his brother. "They are a useful national resource which cannot be ignored."  
Watching the cogs in Sherlock's mind spinning and whirring as the idea settled in his brain was interesting.  
"I take it that you have examples in mind?"  
"Perhaps. But as someone who could be seen as personally fitting into such a category, I believe that you could contribute directly."  
Sherlock’s glare could have out-burned the sun. "My life is not yours with which to meddle. Leave me be."  
Mycroft's face was the image of innocence. “There are others known to us who are in greater need of support."  
"What – are – you – suggesting – is done?" Sherlock hissed with barely controlled rage. Mycroft looked at him mildly.  
"I have merely planted an idea in the good Major's head, perhaps providing a solution for two problems." He looked beyond Sherlock. Miss Metcalfe was approaching from the side of the house, carrying his documents bag. "I cannot delay my departure any longer. Keep Mother entertained and yourself out of the cells. And if you must pry in my desk drawers, please ensure that the secret panel is replaced correctly. No point destroying a Lewis XIV escritoire in a fit of childish frustration." He made himself comfortable in the backseat but left the door open. "I do feel that Sigerson House would benefit from another tenant at the very least. It does seem wrong to have just yourself and Mrs Hudson in that house when there are others in need of somewhere to live, now that the army has no use for their skills."  
Sherlock braced his hands against the open door of the car and leaned in until his face was inches from Mycroft's. "What makes you so sure that such an offer would be accepted or even wanted?"  
"I don't." Mycroft laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and gently pushed him back out of the car. "But a man with his knowledge and nerve might come in useful as an ally, if not as a live-in companion. Ask. You may be surprised by the response you receive."  
Sherlock drew back. "For all that you annoy and infuriate me, it would be best if you returned in some semblance of health, if only to prevent Mama from shattering to pieces from the grief."  
"I will do my utmost to comply," replied Mycroft, "if you will do the same." He pulled the door closed. Miss Metcalfe slid into the driver's seat, having cranked the engine into life.  
Sherlock stood back, and watched as the car faded from view in the dusk.  
It pained him to yet again admit that Mycroft was the cleverer one.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Watson attempts to face up to life beyond the Army, and fears for his future. Sherlock seeks him out to offer a modest proposal...  
> TW - Suicidal Ideation. Watson is in a dark place at the beginning of this chapter, and his thoughts reflect that.

Watson sat at the desk recently provided in his room, reading over the papers which Major Sholto had left for him. It was another gilded summer evening, under a fading sky. Absolutely beautiful and utterly hateful at the same time.  
There would be those who found the preservation of this peace worth fighting for. Four months ago, he would have been one of them. He'd had a solid career filled with modest accomplishments in the knowledge he'd been instrumental the preservation of the the patients of his care. He had been recognised and valued. And if there had been those who have progressed further and faster with familial and social connections, so be it. The army was his home, family and life.  
The stark details of his medical discharge reminded him he had no right to such a claim now. A fractured surgeon who still struggled with his own cuff links could not have a place within the active ranks of the RAMC. There would be some opportunities offered, in appeasement of the injury endured, along with a fractional pension of some description. An older man might have felt able to shrug his shoulders and accept the hand dealt. But he was thirty-five, not the far side of fifty.  
There was another solution It wouldn't be difficult to slip out, as he had done the previous night, once the house was mostly asleep, and find a friendly branch of which sufficient rope could be slung. In fact, he'd dozed under the perfect example the night before…  
"Please don't." A sonorous voice broke through the thickening atmosphere of the room. "At least not until you've considered another outlandish suggestion."  
Sherlock Holmes lent against the door frame, his oddly pale eyes raking over the room. Watson glanced at him, then turned back to examine the peeling paper under the dado rail. "And what makes you think you have anything I would wish to consider?"  
Sherlock's eyes flashed, even though his audience was ignoring him. "I have an idea, which I would prefer not to discuss within these walls."  
"Another of your secret capers?"  
"Perhaps." He reached around the door and latched onto a blue cardigan which he found hanging. He flung it at Watson, who caught it instinctively. "Paperwork and tedium will always wait. My idea will not."  
"It can wait."  
Sherlock stalked over to the desk and propped himself against it. "The concept perhaps, but it would remain at the abstract if the concrete element had devitalised in the intervening hours."  
Watson inclined his head so as to stare down the intruder. "What makes you so sure?"  
"I'm, rarely mistaken. Come on. Up and out." He bounded over to the window and loosened the latch, before pushing up the sash and perching on the ledge. Watson registered the swish of legs, the muffled thump of feet landing on the flowerbed, then the discrete crunch of shoe against gravel.  
He turned his attention back to the details of his papers.  
"The bureaucracy will still be here in the morning," that bucking voice floated past him, "but will you?"  
That was it. Absolutely fucking it. Watson sprang to the window and thrust his head and shoulders outside. "What business is it of yours?" he growled at the figure sat cross-legged on the path, chin was supported on both hands and eyes glittering strangely.  
"I do not pretend to have the power to stop an independent man exercising free will, but..."  
"But what?" Watson's tone may have been lowered so as not to attract attention, but it lacked neither edge nor venom. Sherlock remained unperturbed.  
"I suggest an embargo on such actions for a season or so." Watson ducked back inside. A moment later he was on the path glaring down at the demented pixie disguised as a grown man. Holmes immediately sprang to his feet and hared off in the direction of the summerhouse. Watson followed after him, somewhat more awkwardly, barely keeping him in sight.  
He found him perched on the far arm of the bench under the tree, acknowledging him gravely as he took a seat at the opposite end.  
"So,"Sherlock began. "This is my proposition. Give me six months, and if by that time, you still feel as you seem to do now, your path will be clear to act as you wish." He tilted his head this way and that. His teeth glinted in the dimming light. "You will have privacy, warmth, comfort and sustenance. A resident housekeeper will keep your lodgings straight, and the rent will not demand an arduous portion of your funds."  
Watson folded his arms and glared up through his eyebrows. "Why should I trust you?"  
Sherlock blinked at him, slow and clear. "You would prefer to live in a pitiable room amongst a dismal collection of strangers?"  
"It's not as though I would have much choice in the matter."  
"Oh, but you would have," He turned to face Watson. "If you chose to come live with me- ensure I don't choke on my tongue or accidentally fall into the fire when my brain insults its transport."  
"Where?"  
"Highgate. Sigerson House, to be precise. It is the London property attached to this estate, and it is unfortunately entailed to my supercilious and overbearing brother."  
Watson's expression could have been carved in stone. "I do not readily accept charity."  
“Just as I do not give it mindlessly or do so to outstrip societal guilt, unlike some. In fact, it would be considered an equal sharing of skills and resources. I smoke the most appalling cigarettes, play the violin at all hours and have a penchant for exploring the innards of corpses."  
"Why did you tell me all that?"  
"Future fellow residents have the right to know the very worst of each other at the start. It saves unpleasant and unwelcome surprises."  
A smirk chipped Watson's stony expression. "Is that supposed to tempt me?"  
"Hardly." Sherlock’s grin was conspiratorial. "I would hope it would act to intrigue you. After all, an incurious and complacent doctor is a danger to society and insults the profession."  
“I could hardly call myself a doctor now. No patients, no clinical responsibilities and no chance acquiring any." He twisted his hand this way and that in Sherlock's face.  
"There's nothing to suggest that you wouldn't be considered fit to practice in time."  
Watson shook his head dismissively. "Another fucking optimist. Does this mindless positivism run through the ancestral blood as a means of exhorting your minions to battle on?"  
"No." Watson felt the full force of those eyes upon him and blinks against the sudden attention.  
"Why are you doing this?"  
“Because to sit back and watch you crumble into the grey is nothing short of criminal. You were never afraid of war or the bloodshed it produced. In fact, I would go as far as surmising that it gave you a certain sense of vitality."  
"Perhaps.” Watson studied the grass at his feet. "The vast proportion of my life has been one of regulation and now, there's nothing, or whatever quantity of nothing that a fractional army pension will allow."  
"Which is why you should consider my proposal."  
“And I should take you up at your word because? What is there to say that after six months, if I feel no different, that you won't slip a draught into my tea so I wake up in a straitjacket in a padded cell?"  
Suddenly Sherlock was off the bench and crouching in front of him, one hand each side of Watson's legs. Their faces were perhaps a foot apart. "I am a man of my word." Watson swallowed hard. "There are some things about which I do not joke. I am offering you the opportunity to explore an honest choice."  
Watson looked directly across the Sherlock's eyes. The intimacy of it all was unnerving. "I would like some time to consider your offer."  
Sherlock rocked back into a crouch. "Take whatever time you require," he replied. "I am forced to maintain the mundane hours demanded by my overlords, but my time beyond that is my own, as yours will be."  
"Very well." Watson's weary fingers scrubbed across his face. "I will consider it."  
"Good." Sherlock watched the minute drop of his eyes. “You would be more than welcome to nap where you sit, but I fear that you might invite a further search party."  
"One of those in a single day is quite enough. I'm not entirely sure which will be worse; Lady Holmes’ overwhelming concern or Major Sholto's exasperation. Each had its barbs."  
"I can well imagine. Shall we head back to the house, or are you up for a touch more exploration? Nothing too obviously hazardous, just a sprinkling of peril to spice up the mundane…"  
Watson pushed himself up from the bench. "Lead on."  
"An excellent decision, Captain."  
"My name is John, Mr Holmes."  
Sherlock cast him a mock withering glance. "Kindly do not mistaken me for my sibling," he chided softly. "My name is Sherlock. Ready?"  
"Oh yes."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two conversations take place in the soft evening light, one on the roof, one in the gardens

Two figures could be glimpsed at the utmost fringe of the house.Two pairs of legs, one significantly longer than the other, dangled over the guttering, as if cooled by a bubbling stream.  
"You are utterly insane…" The words were spaced by breath and laughter as his eyes focused on the landscape below.  
Sherlock cast a sideways glance. "Is that your clinical or personal opinion, Doctor?"  
"A combination of both. Congenital lunacy, I believe."  
"And the prognosis?" Sherlock produced a cigarette case and offered it across. John accepted with a smile then bent his head towards the match in Sherlock's hand.  
"And what do you suggest as my treatment?"  
John blew out a hot, ash-scented breath. "Regular meals, acceptable amounts of stress and exertion, both physical and psychological."  
"And that will cure me?"  
John chuckled, deep and true. "No sodding way." His eyes glinted in the dimming light. "Lunacy has its comforts and uses in the appropriate environments. Just as long as there are no more solo adventures in case of mishap."  
"And are you putting yourself forward as an appropriate companion?"  
John appeared to be considering the question. "On a six-month trial, as you yourself suggested."  
Sherlock swallowed, trying not to dwell on the details of their arrangement. John sensed his disquiet and nudged his shoulder, levity replaced by care. "I'm seeking a channel for the purpose and engagement which the Army gave me. Your proposal, accompanied by its smoothing of life’s practicalities, gives me a suggestion of what might be out there."  
"Likewise."  
John frowned. "How come?"  
Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette against a roof tile, then flicked it into the gutter. I lied my way through the army medical," he began. "It’s been several years since my previous significant seizure, which I disclosed to the recruitment panel when pressed…"  
"– But you never disclosed the absences?"  
"No."  
"May I enquire the reason why?"  
"Because I did not care to live. The circumstances of my life made me see that it held little value because it held so little interest or promise." He paused, as though trying to pull the story out of the air. John willed him to continue.  
"I was surrounded by the officer class, desperate to get out there and do their bit, outwardly brazen, inwardly terrified. I was approached as I finished at Cambridge by one of the senior fellows that my skills could be put to good use, if I signed up with them."  
"MI?"  
Sherlock nodded. “The greatest of the Magisterial Idiots. I trusted them as much as I would a snake on a songbird’s nest. I realised that I had a matter of hours to make up my mind, so that night I stepped out of college amongst the Evensong hordes and signed up as a private at the Corn Exchange.  
"The MI bigwig was furious, but Mycroft was incandescent. I was signing myself off to be shipped into basic training, dumped in with all the rest of the hoi polloi – his words not mine – and would most likely end up as a modest splatter on a trench wall within the year. A waste of effort, talent and education according to him and the rest of the Morons."  
"He wasn't far wrong on that." John was back at the dressing station surveying rows of the dead. Perhaps one in ten reached twenty-five before the pulverisation. The memory made him shudder. There was the soft swish of sleeve linings brushing shirt cuffs before a jacket floated around his shoulders. "Good of you."  
“Merely maintaining an appropriate balance of temperature, John. Besides, I prefer an actively listening audience, not one trapped within their own heads."  
"The gesture is appreciated just the same. Pray continue."  
"A compromise was reached in the end. I would remain at war, purposes of accounts a private, but MI retained the right to transfer once my basic training was completed. And so I ended up with the Major Lestrade, who was fully cognisant of my dual role. I became known for my recklessness, always retrieving what was asked of me, no matter the circumstances, until that night when I came across the booby-trap trench itself and planted myself in the mud.”  
"Why did you continually put yourself forward for that?"  
Sherlock turned to face him, but gazed somewhere past his ear. "I had something to prove, having spent an eternity being the sickly one, especially after Sherry died. My mother would have preferred to have me on the ends of her apron strings eternally, or at the very least safely cloistered within a Cambridge laboratory…"  
"– And that made you ever more determined." A statement, not a question.  
"Precisely. And while I can never be sure that my actions added a great deal to the national effort, unlike yours, at least it gave me space to be invisible amongst the general chaos."  
"Why would you wish to be that?"  
Sherlock blinked. "I had been subjected to immense scrutiny the whole of my life, due to my heritage, intelligence and singular inability to interact positively with others."  
"So what changed?"  
"You. You saw me as a person, even when I was barely more than a corpse. The way you talked to me in the treatment room proved that."  
John leaned back and stared at the drifting clouds. "You were no different than any other casualty I treated. I had no way of knowing how much you would remember of what I said."  
"I count myself fortunate that I landed in your care."  
"Thank Williams for that. He was the one on a midnight tramp who stopped you turning into crow food, not me."  
"Where is he now? Still in France?"  
John shook his head. “Got moved into warmer, drier climes a couple of months after I treated you. It wasn't his choice."  
"I think you'll find my brother was at the bottom of that. He has an appalling habit of meddling in other people's lives." He glanced at his hands." Including ours."  
"Really?"  
"He will never entirely admit to it, but I am convinced he ensured your transfer."  
"I cannot pretend to be anything other than grateful for everything you and your family have done for me, whatever their individual motives. Sometimes instinct is stronger than reason."  
– – –  
Two figures far below, emerged from the darkening knot garden, engaged in friendly conversation. Movements high above caught their joint gaze.  
"Ma'am…" Sholto pointed up at the house. "Should I be concerned?"  
Lady Holmes looked up. "Two unusual specimens appear to have found a joint roost there. Please don't worry - it is far safer up there than you would believe from this angle." She waved at them. They waved back in unison.  
"Should I be concerned that more of my patients might find a route up?"  
"My dear Major, it is only accessible via the east attics, to which only my sons and myself have a key."  
Sholto relaxed a fraction. "I will admit to a certain level of relief at that. There are some of our patients who lack your son's surefootedness."  
"I will remind him to lock it up this evening. Do you perhaps have time for cocoa before your final rounds?"  
"That is most courteous of you, ma'am." They disappeared into the house.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter, a gift and a departure.

17th June 1918

South Road

Norwood

Dear Watson

Very much relieved to hear of your recovery. Apologies for not visiting, but we are recovering from the news that our trio is to become a quartet at some some point towards Christmas! Helen is doing well, even while Elsie charges about the house like a miniature hurricane.They both send their love. Please let us know of your next move as soon as possible.

Kindest regards,

Stamford

– – –

 "Do you have everything?"

 "Yes, Mama. My room is clear of all temporary detritus, as is the summerhouse, and I have collected appropriate reading matter for the train."

"What about this?" Lady Holmes dangled a small knapsack from her hand. “Just something to keep all of your functions firing on the journey, as well as some raspberry preserve for Mrs Hudson."

He huffed but took the bag nonetheless. "I am not your messenger.”

Lady Holmes reached up and smoothed his hair. "Under the circumstances, I believe that you are. Now get your packages together, we are leaving in precisely ten minutes."

"Yes, Mama." He dashed out of the kitchen and up the back stairs.

– – –

"So when can I expect you?" John leaned against the bonnet of the car, hands in his pockets. He looked up sharply at Sherlock's voice.

"As soon as my discharge papers receive the full rubber stamp treatment, which will take as long as it takes. Remember I'm not the only hopalong around here."

"Clearly. But understand that I expect you to keep to our agreement."

John shot him an indecipherable look. "Likewise. The more extreme vagaries of your condition should be kept at bay with regular nutrition and rest."

"Yes, Doctor." He tossed something small and hard at John. His left hand automatically reached out and snatched it from the air. "Someone to to keep an eye on you.”

"Thank you." John turned the object over in his hand. A wooden hedgehog, simply carved out of a single piece of wood, designed to fit snugly in a small hand. "Whose handiwork is this?"

"Sherry's. Never the most intellectual of souls, but he had other gifts. Including the ability to make me this companion to take away to school,  so that I wouldn't really ever be alone."

"He?"

"Iggl Sharp Spike, who kept my nightmares at bay for years."

"So why are you giving him to me?"

Sherlock's gaze grew more considered. "I was instructed by his creator to pass him on to a new hand when my dreams calmed, or when I met someone in greater need of him than myself."

John turned Iggl over and over in his hand, suddenly struggling against the lump in his throat and the smarting of his eyes. He stared down at the tiny carved face. "We will look after each other."

Sherlock kicked at the gravel for a moment before daring to look up with an awkward grin. "See that you do." He climbed into the back of the car, just as Lady Holmes emerged from the porch.

She indicated the starting handle. "Captain Watson, would you assist me?"

"By all means." The engine was somewhat reluctant to respond at first, but struggled into a hesitant purr on the third rotation of the handle. John stepped back and waved as the car drove off into the dawn.  
He could have sworn he saw Sherlock turn and watch as they left the house and him behind them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A departure and an arrival. London beckons...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been almost two years in the writing, and now there's only the epilogue to go! A huge thank you to everyone who's been following this with me.

John looked around his room for the final time, ensuring that his meagre collection of personal effects were securely packed into the case given to him for the purpose.  
"Doctor Watson?" He whipped round. Sholto stood in the doorway, an envelope in his hand and a smile on his face. “All done?"  
John saluted. "Yes, sir."  
"At ease, then. Here are your papers. They include a letter of reference which should assist you in the search for a new situation, once you're back to full strength."  
"Thank you, sir." John tucked the envelope into the breast pocket of his suit.  
"Keep in touch." A command, not a request. "We’ll likely be here for the foreseeable, whatever transpires on the other side of the water. Keep yourself vertical and ventilated."  
"I'll do my best, sir."  
"No doubt you will. And keep an eye on Holmes; this country needs as many men of his calibre as it can hold onto, for all his odd and awkward demeanour."  
"I have received similar orders from Lady Holmes, and I have no intention of letting her down."  
"Excellent. If you find that you need further medical assistance for either yourself or Holmes, then do not hesitate to inform me, and I will do my utmost to assist you both."  
"Much appreciated, sir.” They shook hands. Sholto strode up the corridor with only the slightest suggestion of his tin foot. His courage and determination reminded John, as though he ever needed it, of the struggle which lay ahead for him.  
– – –  
"Oh, there you are." John turned at the foot of the main stairs. Lady Holmes stood on the first landing.  
"May I be of assistance?"  
"Undoubtedly. There are a number of boxes which I would like to accompany you to London. Items which I believe are better suited to my son's rooms. Would you be willing to take up the challenge?"  
"Most certainly. Whereabouts are they?"  
"Up another couple of flights, I'm afraid."  
– – –  
"Are you sure you have everything?"  
"Absolutely, Ma'am." Lady Holmes let out a mildly exasperated sigh.  
"I wish you could find it within yourself to call me Violet."  
John examined the floorboard closest to his feet. "It would seem impolite to do so. Would you mind if I kept to Lady Holmes, at least for now?"  
"If you must, but I will still call you Doctor Watson, if that will make you feel more at home."  
John shrugged. "I can hardly call myself by that title at the moment."  
"No-one can strip you of your academic achievements, And I have every belief that you will be back in some form of practice one day, if only to save my most beloved idiot from himself from time to time."  
"I will do as much as he will allow."  
"That will do for me." Lady Holmes slid on her driving gloves and adjusted the veil of her hat. "I have telephoned ahead to inform my son of precisely the time that he will be expected to meet you at Waterloo, and that you will not be travelling unencumbered. Mrs Hudson, his former nanny and our London housekeeper, has also been duly appraised of your arrival, and sends her best wishes. She has had almost as much experience of wrangling my offspring as I have done, and is an invaluable source of information, support and deeply adorable tales of their younger years." Her eyes took on a bright light. "I trust that you will bear that in mind when a certain individual attempts to browbeat you with unreasonable behaviour."  
"Oh, I believe that I can match him, toe to toe."  
"You will have much fun trying, I am sure. So, shall we go?"  
– – –  
John leaned out of the carriage window and waved until the train swept away from the platform and into the lushness of a summer shower. The fields flew past in a patchwork of greens and gold, speckled with wildflowers. The odd combination of wet grass and engine smoke made him giddy as he breathed it in. He had lived under the weight of institutions and their rules since the age of thirteen, and to be suddenly and completely free of them created an odd sense of imbalance. The next six months were his to adjust to a different life. He knew that not every moment of that time would be as free and simple as sitting in an empty railway carriage and watching the world flash past, but hope had to be grasped at every opportunity, as had joy.

The train grew busier as London approached, to the point where every seat seemed filled by the time they pulled in to Waterloo on the outer edge of the afternoon. John stroked his head at the carriage window, and spotted Sherlock immediately. He was halfway down the platform, his back ramrodded against a pillar, eyes searching every carriage as it passed him. His gaze caught John's; the solemn, studied face cracked with a hopeful smile.  
He strode through the crowds on the platform, hand extended. "Welcome home," he said, his voice a curious mixture of excitement and gravity.  
John shook his hand as he stepped out of the train. "It's hardly that, Sherlock." He felt a hand land softly on his healing shoulder, the better to shield it from the bustle of the crowds.  
"Of course it is. Where else is there, except in the greatest city of them all. Come on, let's collect whatever baggage with which my sainted Mama has burdened you." He spotted the birth of a frown on John's face. " I speak from affection rather than insult.I am in no doubt that she has shared her opinion of me. We Holmeses only tease the ones they hold dear, the better to make them laugh." The lightness of his voice infected John. "See? It appears to be working already. The great game of London life stretches out before us."  
By now, they had reached the ticket hall. "So what are the rules?"  
Sherlock's grin was incandescent. "We'll make them up as we go."


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The months pass and the war ends.  
> Sherlock remembers the pledge that he made to John in the summer, and now fears the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't quite believe that I've finally finished this story! Thank you to everyone who has read this.  
> I owe a massive amount to 221bJen for being there to help me sort it out.  
> I may well return to this AU another time, but not probably before I've dealt with my sadly neglecting WIPS

From the shores of an ancient country  
12th July 1918

Dear Dr Watson

I am delighted hear from you as ever, and I trust that your recovery continues in your new surroundings.  
I will have new surroundings of my own shortly, as those in charge of my deployment have seen fit to disengage me from the Ambulance Corps in order to ‘honour me with a role which better reflects my value to the nation’. My extended family are much relieved at this news, as you can well understand. I have come to realise that my active war service exposed me to the best of humanity in the worst of circumstances, especially when I was given the honour of serving under officers such as your good self. I have yet to receive full details of my new posting, but I expect to be based somewhere in London once more. I would very much appreciate the opportunity of meeting up with you again as duties and health allow.  
With best regards  
RVW  
– – –  
September 

Waterloe Park was particularly pleasant sight, despite the sharp wind which tugged at unwary scarves and hats. Miss Metcalfe took a seat on the most sheltered bench she could find and unfolded her newspaper, so as to discourage casual disruptions.  
She didn’t have long to wait.“I believe that you are waiting for me.” Miss Metcalfe looked up into the face of a older man with soft eyes and a gentle smile. She noted his worn Homberg and the coat which seemed to be keeping him upright.  
She gave him her warmest smile.”Mr Madden?”  
“Yes. Thank you for agreeing to take time from your office to speak to me. May I join you, Miss Metcalfe?”  
She folded her newspaper and set it next to her on the bench. “By all means.”  
“Thank you.” He sit down at a respectful distance. “I am wishing to enquire about the identity of an officer who was caught up in a Zeppelin attack on a train heading towards London Bridge earlier this year.” He looked directly at her, as if to gauge her reaction. ”Unfortunately my daughter was killed outright before any help could reach her.” The memory briefly robbed him of his words.  
“...but your granddaughter was more fortunate?”  
He nodded. “She owes her life to the man whom I understand suffered grievous injuries as a result.”  
“That was the case.”  
He froze at her words. “Was?”  
“My apologies,Mr Madden for the confusion. He was injured but has every hope of recovery.”  
“I am most glad to hear that. To lose my beloved daughter just a few months after my son in law died in in France was bad enough, but I would not have survived my grief without dear Milly. We owe everything to that brave man. Might I ask his name?“  
“Captain J H Watson, jointly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and Royal Army Medical Corps.”  
“Is he still serving?”  
“Regretfully, no. The injuries he received during the Zeppelin raid were deemed incompatible with a return to active duty.”  
Mr Madden sighed. ”That is no reward for a brave man. Please could you pass on my thanks for his actions? I am not without influence in London and would gratefully use this to smooth his path as he returns to civilian life.”  
“That is kind of you, Mr Madden.” She passed him a card. “I will be happy to pass on any correspondence that you send via my office, although it may be some time before he responds, if at all.”  
“I understand. Thank you again.“ He stood with some difficulty and tipped his hat. ”I wish you a good day.”  
“And you.”  
Miss Metcalfe turned back to her paper as he walked away from the bench, her eyes blinking against the sudden reappearance of the sun.  
\----  
December   
Colour began to creep back into Londonafter the Armistice, shade by shade. Sherlock had given Mrs Hudson free rein to clutter Sigerson House with evergreen branches and bunting. He pretended to be annoyed by all the fuss that she made, but took a certain secret joy in the bustle. It served to distract him from the nagging fear of a date which loomed before the year’s end.  
John's recovery progressed, Mrs Hudson having made it her personal mission to tempt his appetite as much as the rationing allowed. He gained both weight and strength, to the point that the suit issued to him on leaving the Army was positively snug. He accompanied her on daily walks, initially through Waterloe Park and latterly onto Hampstead Heath, where he had been instrumental in gathering blackberries and other wild delicacies. The march of silver through the dark gold of his hair did not relent, but its density and lustre increased, as did the light in his eyes.

There were still nightmares and dark mornings when the furthest he could venture was the chair in the library, but they appeared to occur less frequently now. Sherlock took note of these days nonetheless, and made a point of consulting him on scientific and medical queries which he pretended were beyond his own understanding. This, above all else, pulled John from the lonelier moments.

And then the day arrived, a Saturday, oddly bright and clear. Sherlock sat at the breakfast table and paid the paper a derisory amount of attention. HIs plate remained empty, but a half -filled tumbler of water quivered within reach.  
“Not hungry this morning?" John took his seat at the table. "Should I be concerned?"  
Sherlock’s smile was a brief, watery affair. “I shall have something shortly."  
John’s smile warmed him, even in this state. "See that you do. Any adventures planned for today?"  
"Perhaps a walk on the Heath later, if the weather holds.”  
“Excellent idea. Nothing like being out on a sharp, bright day to clear the mind."

He poured a cup of tea and offered to hand over the the pot, but Sherlock shook his head. "Not at the moment, thank you." He reached for his water and knocked it flying. "S – sorry." He stood, the better to rectify the flow across the table. His legs failed beneath him, upsetting his chair. He landed in an awkward tangle of limbs on the floor, all decorum lost.  
John was with him in an instant. He rested one hand on Sherlock's wrist, the other on his shoulder. "Easy now. All you need to do now is breathe. Slow and clear and calm. Look up at me and breathe with me. In, hold, out."  
Sherlock shook his head, his eyes wild and panicking, as though fighting off a seizure. "Breathing won't help if you're not here." Sherlock's voice was a ragged whisper. He found the courage to glance up into John's face. “The half-year is up today. A pledge is a pledge. I will, of course, respect your decision, but I have to know what it will be."  
The grounding of John's touch slipped away from him. He pressed his eyes tight shut, the better to hold onto the memory. Then he was engulfed by a circle of arms in an embrace of equal parts ferocity and reassurance. His cheek was pushed against the fresh cotton of John’s shirt and a pair of practised hands stroked down his spine.  
"Oh Lord, what a pair we make." John's voice came up rougher than usual. His chin was pressed against the curve of Sherlock shoulder as he continued. "You are an utter clot, but I'm the biggest idiot breathing." He swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. "I thank you for your half-year race, and am deeply sorry for causing you to to think that I would choose to leave by my own hand."  
Sherlock took in a shuddering breath and found the courage to disentangle himself from John so that he could look him in the eye. "I thank you for your clarity and apologise my lapse in self-control. It won't happen again.”  
"Damn right, at least as a result of my actions.” John's eyes grew deep and wide similarly on the point of brimming themselves. "You are a dear, dear man, who has shown me nothing but kindness and generosity in the months since we met.. Most of all, you've begun to make me realise that your friendship has given me something of far greater value."  
Sherlock swallowed down the last fragment of his fear. "What?" he asked  
"Hope."  
– – –  
They took their walk in the early afternoon, to make the most of the fragile brightness of the winter sunshine. The Heath was dotted with people as far as the eye could see. Far below them, a small blonde girl sent a kite up into the breeze and watched it fly. An old, slightly stooped man in a heavy grey coat followed her with a grandfather’s measureless pride. He looked across towards Sherlock and John and raised his hat. They returned the gesture.  
"A fine day to be alive," floated over to them.  
"Indeed," replied John, and truly believed it to be so.


End file.
